


The Page Years

by Captain_Clueless



Series: The Wolves of Tirragen [2]
Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, The Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: AU, Alex of Tirragen is a Wizard of Mathematics, Alex of Tirragen is an Adorkable Warrior Nerd, Conquest as Backdrop, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Hill Country, Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Clueless/pseuds/Captain_Clueless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tirragenverse Summary: For Want of a Nail AU. In which Alex of Tirragen, son of Jasper of Tirragen – and Leila, once of the Sleeping Lion – does not become a traitor; Hill Country is explored; Sir Myles has never been so entertained in his life; and the Song of the Lioness crew before Alanna dropped in.<br/>Sequel/companion fic to The World's a Stage. Guest starring my OFC from World's A Stage and George Cooper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Alex of Tirragen inherited his mother's walnut brown skin, her full mouth, her Sight, and her curly black hair. The only thing, the nine-and-a-half-year old thought, as he stared at himself in the mirror through bleary black eyes, that he’d inherited from his father in his features was the hooked nose and long face, which both his half-brothers had inherited. That marked him as Alexander of _Tirragen_ , son of the late Lord Jasper of Tirragen, as well as the son of Leila, lately of Tirragen, once of the Sleeping Lion.

Mama would be proud of how he has remembered the formalities, he thought.

He finished dressing quickly, and trooped downstairs to the salon, where he knew the rest of his family would be having breakfast. He slid into his seat, next to his mother.

His brother Duncan was out, escorting the group of Players northward, towards the City of the Gods, and Miranda and Jason would be coming into the room soon. Over tea and twilsey, they would plan the day with his mother.

His mother kissed him on the forehead, the gauzy silver veil over her head fluttering with the movement. “Good morning, Alex.”

“Morning, Mama,” he replied, yawning. She rapped her fan on his knuckles.

“Don't yawn at the table,” she chided him. “If you absolutely must, you may cover your yawn with your hand.”

“Yes, Mother,” he smiled his best innocent-obedient-son smile at her, and she flicked her fan out. It covered her mouth, but not the amused crinkles around her eyes. He smiled at the manservant who poured him a cup of apple twilsey.

“Thank you, Arion,” he said. The manservant bowed, and stepped back. Alex sipped the cup. “Do you know what I'm doing today, Mother?” Alex asked.

Leila's smile was slight and gentle, but she shook her head. “We'll plan it with Miranda and Jason, when they come down.”

“We're here, Leila,” his sister-in-law's voice called, as she and Jason entered, their arms around each other's waists. “Is there tea?”

“Naturally,” Leila replied, her smile widening. “And everything else customarily served for breakfast.”

“Oh, good,” said Miranda, as Jason pushed in her chair for her. “Thank you, dear.” She helped herself to a bowl of rice. “The harvest will be in soon. We're going to need to start inventory,” she said.

Leila nodded. “I had thought to go riding with Alex this afternoon,” she said, “but if we worked together, we would be able to make significant headway on that this morning.”

Miranda smiled. “Thank you. Your hand with sums is far more deft than my own,” her voice was wry, and Alex swelled with pride; his mother was very good at sums. Another thing she had passed onto him.

“Leila, would it be alright if I borrowed Alex this morning, then?” Jason asked, halving a hard-boiled egg. “To have a talk about what he'll choose to do.”

Leila nodded, her eyes narrowing a touch, and Alex shifted. From some, that look might mean hostility; from his mother, it was concern.

“Very well. Alex, you're a fortunate boy today,” said Leila. “No lessons. Instead, with your brother after breakfast, and then after lunch, you and I shall saddle the horses and go riding.”

“What if there is time in between lunch and my appointment with Jason?” Alex wanted to know, his fingers already itching with anticipation. If he could just find Sanya, the Captain of the Tirragen Guardsmen, he might be able to beg a lesson in staff-work or dagger-work – as the man stolidly refused to teach him swordplay – from him. Leila smiled at that, and her eyes twinkled, reading what he desperately wanted to spend that time doing.

“If there is, you may report to your governess for etiquette instruction,” Leila said. Alex wanted to groan, but stifled the impulse; Leila might rap him with her fan again, or, far worse, change her plans to go riding with him. Which would be awful.

“Yes, Mother,” he said, gulping down the last of his egg, and then pushing his chair back. Jason rose as well, his eyes dancing, even though his face was calm.

“Eager, hm, Alex?” he teased, reaching to ruffle Alex's hair. Alex dodged, and Jason chuckled, as they continued down the hall to enter Jason's study.

As the door shut behind him, Alex asked the obvious question.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

Jason was rifling through his desk, to withdraw a scroll. “Ah, here it is.”

He steepled his fingers as he sat; Alex sat as well. “You're going to be ten this winter,” Jason said, answering Alex's question. “That means you need to decide what you're going to do with your life. There are several options available for you. Mithran priesthood, for the first.”

Alex stamped on the urge to wrinkle his nose in distaste, instead keeping his face politely interested. But Jason knew him well enough to read the controlled lack of reaction well enough. “No, I didn't think you'd like that,” Jason admitted with a smile. “You could, at the age of 16, join the King's Own.”

“What would that mean doing?”

“Mostly? Parading in mail around the Court,” Jason conceded. “It's not really a fighting post. Or anything involving tracking, or much riding, or anything other than showing off to Court ladies, not unless things have changed dramatically in the past two years.”

“Pass,” Alex said, not bothering to contain his distaste. It was one thing to not show his reluctance to join the priesthood, out of fear of the gods. He felt no such compunction about this second. Really, what was the good of a nominal fighting force?

He knew the last option in advance.

“Or you could be a knight,” Jason admitted, with a flicker of hesitation. “Which I'm reluctant to encourage. Not because of any nonsense about traditional birth order.”

“Then why?”

“Because the Ordeal I faced in the Chamber was terrifying. The Chamber is a hammer, and you must either bend beneath it or break. And I'd not wish it on my worst enemy, but you have to go through it.” He unrolled the scroll. “This is the Code of Chivalry, which binds knights of Tortall. Listen.”

Jason cleared his throat, and read.

“If you survive the Ordeal of Knighthood, you will be a knight of the realm. You will be sworn to protect those weaker than you, to obey your overlord, to live in a way that honours the kingdom and your gods. To wear the shield of a knight is an important thing. It means you may not ignore a cry for help. It means that rich and poor, young and old, male and female may look to you for rescue and you may not deny them.”

The rich as well as the poor, Alex realised. If someone looks to you for rescue, then you have to. Even if it’s someone you would think able to help themselves, you still have to help them. You have to help _everyone_.

“You are bound to uphold the law. You may not look away from wrongdoing. You may not help anyone to break the law of the land, and you must prevent the breaking of the law at all times, in all cases. You are bound by your honour and your word. Act in such a way that when you face the Black God you need not be ashamed."

Alex shivered at the mention of the god of death, but nodded. It was good counsel.

“You have learned the laws of Chivalry. Keep them in your heart. Use them as your guides when things are at their darkest. They will not fail you if you interpret them with humanity and kindness. A knight is gentle. A knight's first duty is to understand."

He rolled the scroll up again, and Alex blinked as he absorbed this last. A knight's first duty is to understand? What did that mean?

Then he smiled, deciding that the rest of the Code had made his answer for him.

“That's what I want to do,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

“Even with all my warnings about the Ordeal?” Jason asked, one corner of his mouth quirking into a rueful, wry smile. He took Alex's small brown hands into his much larger olive-toned ones.

Alex shrugged. “Mama could have used a knight, when she was facing her tribe,” he said, matter-of-fact. “When they didn't believe her.”

“It might not have done any good,” Jason said dryly. “Many tribes do not recognise the authority of King Roald, nor that of Jasson before him. The Sleeping Lion was certainly a renegade tribe.”

Alex frowned at his brother. “You know what I mean. She could have used somebody,” he persisted.

“It's in the past, though, what happened to Leila,” Jason said, but his words were half-hearted. Alex locked eyes with his older brother, brown against black.

“For Mama. But what about the other girls?” he asked softly. Jason sighed, and nodded his surrender.

“Yes, you're right. Very well, then. A knight you shall be,” Jason said. He squeezed Alex's hands once, then released them. "Well. What shall we do for the rest of the morning?”

Alex blinked. “Pardon?”

Jason chuckled. “Alex, if I'm not cruel enough to want you to go through the Ordeal, I'm not cruel enough to sentence you to a morning of etiquette instruction,” he said, with a smile. “How about instead, you go offer your arithmetical services to your mother and Miranda?”

“You mean, help them with the inventory?” Alex checked. His older brother nodded.

“I do.”

“Alright, then,” he said, turning on his heel to exit the office. He shot a smile at Jason over his shoulder. “Thanks, Jason,” he said.

“Be off with you,” said Jason, as he gestured to his desk. “Duty calls.”

* * *

That afternoon, after lunch, he went down to the stables with his mother. They didn’t bother with saddles, although Leila did urge him to bridle Jaiyana. He swung onto her back, urging her forward to meet his mother’s bay mare, Asil, and she pointed her to the castle gates. They rode out, with Guardsmen Porthos, Aramis and Athos following at a discreet distance.

  
No matter. Leila, astride in her split-skirts, urged Asil into a canter, and Alex whooped as his concerns fled from him. No past, and no future. Just the glorious rush of wind in his ears, as rider and horse became a single entity, soaring over the obstacle of the bramble bush, and reluctantly slowing to a trot as they began up the hill. But he couldn’t help but wonder whether his mother had had something more important than just riding today.  

“Alex,” his mother said at long last. “There’s something I ought to talk to you about.”

Ah. So his suspicion had been correct.

“Yes, Mother?” he prompted.

“You’ve chosen to be a knight, haven’t you?”

He tried to control the jerk of surprise, but Jaiyana's ears flicked forward and she neighed at his reins yanking on her mouth. Not angrily; just wondering what on earth her human was thinking. He soothed her with a murmur and scratching her withers. “How did you know?” he demanded.

Leila’s chuckle was wry. “Process of elimination. From your reaction, though, I know I was correct. At any rate, I wanted to talk to you about when you got to the Palace.”

He looked at the reins in his hands.

“You know that I married your father, two years after being cast out of the Sleeping Lion,” his mother said. “Did your father ever tell you why I was cast out?”

Alex nodded. It had been one of the last conversations his father had had with him. Even three years later, the memory was fresh and clear.

“I’ve never regretted my decision to have you,” his mother said softly, leaning across from her mare to brush his cheek gently. He looked up at her, up at her eyes, which were soft, warm, concerned. “But once you’re a page, you’ll be at the Palace, in Corus. It won’t be like here, where the people of the fief are used to you and me. They might be hostile, and sneer at you, and call you a savage. Or a bastard. Or–” her lips thinned, as she pronounced the slur, “sand-scut. That’s a particular favourite of some northerners.”

“How do you know, Mama?” he asked.

“I spent some time in Persopolis as a young woman, and some of the more odious northern _gentlemen_ –” she pronounced with great sarcasm “–had little concept of how sound travels."

He nodded, absorbing this, looking down. Jaiyana’s mane was glossy; as well it should, for he had brushed it till it gleamed.  
“Go on, Mama,” he said, lifting his head. “I’m alright.”

“Very well. If they don’t treat you like someone less than them, you may get a few who treat you as an charming pet. Still less than human, but rather cute, or exotic,” she continued. “Which would rankle anyone’s pride.”

“Will there be anyone who might treat me just as a friend?” Alex asked. “Or an equal?”

She looked him in the eyes, her own black gaze sad. “From the outset? Probably not,” she said, totally truthful. “More likely is that someone would take you under their wing, from pity, or compassion,” she continued. “But they might grow to respect you and love you as a friend. But if someone does take you under their wing–”

She tipped her thumb under his chin, ensuring that his gaze didn’t slip from hers. “I want you to let them, Alex,” she said. Her voice was stern, and Very Serious. “You’ll be at a disadvantage. You’ll be on hostile ground. I know you consider yourself Tortallan, as well as Bazhir and hillboy, but, in reality, you will be in territory not your own. So if an older boy offers you his protection, even if it rankle your pride – take it.”

He nodded, accepting this calmly. Truth be told, he didn’t think he was half so prideful as his Mother was, from all the stories she – and Papa – had told him. Not that he’d tell her that, of course. And even half her pride was still considerable.

“Yes, Mama,” he said, again.

She kissed him on the forehead. “I’m proud of you,” she said, looking away. He felt blood rush to his face, and knew he was blushing. “Though I shall miss you dearly.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He forged on, trying to make her understand why he did have to go. “But…well, I have to be a knight. So that if someone needs help…”

“Yes, I understand,” she completed the thought that he left hanging in the air. “Of course you must.” A gentle smile.  “And when you receive your shield, I’ll be there in Corus.”

He flushed with pleasure at the thought. Then, being a nine-and-a-half year old boy, decided that he’d reached his important-and-meaningful threshold for the day.

“A gallop?” he asked his mother hopefully, as they crested the hill.

A dignified nod, and a distinctly smug grin.

“Race you to the bottom,” said Leila, leaning back for balance, already urging Asil into a canter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Asil: 'smooth.'  
> Jaiyana: 'strength.'  
> Since Tamora Pierce decided on a Greek name – Alexander – for someone from hill country, I decided to follow suit. Hence names like Jason. Porthos, Athos and Aramis are also Greek names, but were mostly because I couldn't resist the joke. D'Artagnan, however, will not be making an appearance.  
> This chapter is set during The World's a Stage.


	2. At the Palace

****“Your Grace,” Alex said softly, inclining his head deeply, wishing his mouth wasn’t so dry.

His Grace the Duke of Naxen had very sharp brown eyes. They seemed to pick over him, with careful scrutiny, but displayed no distaste or scorn. Perhaps it was a good sign.

“Alexander of Tirragen. Well met,” he said, as he opened Jason’s letter of introduction. “Hmm. Jason of Tirragen. Something of a tearaway, when he was here. I have not seen him at Court in a while. Nor do I remember your other brother,” he said, as he read through it.

“No, your Grace,” Alex confirmed. That seemed safe enough.

“I do remember your late father Jasper, though. Brave man, Black God rest his soul,” the Duke continued. “Sit, if you will.”

Alex obeyed, and willed his pulse to slow. With no success, as it continued to pound with nervousness. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“Now, you are here to be trained as a knight of Tortall. Bound by the Code of Chivalry to defend the weak, protect the realm, and serve the King and Queen faithfully.” Alex nodded as the Duke paused for breath. That seemed correct. “Pursuant to this, you will be trained for a minimum of four years as a page, and then, should you be deemed worthy, another four years as a squire. You will be taught how to fight, and how to think. With Mithros’ blessing, you will learn both arts.” Duke Gareth’s voice was very dry, and Alex smiled as he recognised the tone that Jason employed after a very long day. Then he felt a warm wash of embarrassment as one brown eyebrow arched in imperious query.

“Did I say something amusing, Tirragen?” the Duke inquired.

 “No, your Grace,” he replied, relieved to hear his voice remain steady. “I’m only glad to hear that pages are taught how to think as well as how to fight.”

The eyebrow rose higher, but not disapprovingly so. He hoped. “Is that so? Most boys aren’t so glad that they’ll be spending about half their time in their books.”

With great difficulty, he avoided shrugging. “As you say, your Grace. I know I need to be able to think.”

Something flickered in the Duke’s eyes. Was it wishful thinking on his part to name the something approval?

“Of that, I have no doubt.” More dry humour. The eyebrows lowered again to their normal position. “After your service as a squire is done, again for four years, you will undergo the Ordeal of Knighthood. Should you pass through it, you will be awarded your shield as a Knight of Tortall. Be aware that not everyone survives, nor even emerges unscathed. I am proof.” He gestured with his left hand and its missing index finger. “Have you come with a manservant, or a retainer? Some boys do.”

Alex shook his head. “Yes, your Grace. My brother Duncan will be returning to Tirragen with his squad, but Athos, Porthos and Aramis–” who didn’t so much as stir from their position in the background of the room “–will be staying with me.”

Duke Gareth raised an eyebrow. “Three retainers, Tirragen?”

Alex swallowed. “Yes, your grace. Perhaps they would be able to serve as guardsmen for the Palace? I know they are willing,” he suggested. Duke Gareth covered his mouth with his hand for a moment, then continued.

“Very well. A compromise, then: one guardsman may stay with you in your quarters, and the other two will be billeted in the barracks of the Palace Guard. You’ll live in the pages’ wing, and one of the older pages will be your sponsor. They will show you your duties, classes, and in general, what constitutes the life of a Palace page, until you are familiar with it. If you misbehave, I fear you will learn how harsh I can be. However, if you work hard and are obedient, then I believe we shall get along nicely, and see very little of each other. If you prove yourself worthy of it, you will be granted free time in Corus. Mark the words ‘ _if_ ’ and ‘ _worthy_.’ In page training, one learns that the price of noble privilege is chivalry. If you would have privilege, you _must_ pay that price. You’re dismissed. Timon, please take his retainers to his room.”

Alex rose and bowed. Duke Gareth nodded. “You will attend me at the evening meal, in one week’s time. Do you have any questions?”

“No, your Grace,” Alex said, relieved to have made it through.

The Duke smiled faintly. “Work hard, and you may just do. Timon, please see to it that he gets his proper clothing from the Palace tailors. Guardsmen, you will have to fetch those on your own.”

“Your Grace,” Timon said, laying a hand on Alex’s shoulder. With that, they left Duke Gareth’s office, and Alex almost wanted to shake from relief. For all the world, it felt like he had passed his first test.

*  * *

He wasn’t the only new boy in page training, of course. The Tirragen party had arrived in September, when most families sent their sons in for page training, so that they could spend winter in the capital. But it seemed like he had been the last to arrive. Not too surprising, that. Tirragen _was_ on the other side of the country, after all. It was a fortnight’s ride, and that at a fairly hard pace.

Timon escorted him to the pages’ tailor, a wiry, stooped figure, who was currently growling at a very tall, stocky eleven-year old boy.

“Another one for you, Master Tailor,” said Timon, rapping on the door to announce his entry.

“Of _course_ another one,” the tailor grumbled, tightening a cord around the older boy’s waist. “My thanks, Timon.” The surly tone belied the politeness of the words, but Timon ignored it. Alex stepped into the room and out of the door frame, eying the tailor warily.

The older boy grinned at Alex, white teeth flashing in a face only a little less swarthy than Alex’s own. He was apparently unconcerned by the tailor’s snarls. His mouth was wide, his hair was dark brown, and his eyebrows were arched, as if he always found something curiously funny.

“You must be new,” he said. “I’m Selwyn of Pearlmouth, second-year page.”

“Alexander of Tirragen,” Alex replied. “First-year page.”

Selwyn nodded. “Do you have a sponsor yet?” he asked. Alex blinked.

“Er, no. I just got here,” he said. Selwyn nodded.

“Very well. I’ll show you around.” Another friendly grin, and Alex felt his lips curve into a small responding smile.

The tailor took the cords off Selwyn, and took two pairs of hose, two shirts and two tunics out of a box. “Here,” he snapped, shoving the items at Selwyn. “You know the rules. Don’t let me see you for another three months, at the _very least_!”

Selwyn nodded at the tailor, and winked at Alex. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he said, heading for the door. “Don’t let him eat you.”

Alex suppressed a snort of laughter – not a good idea, with the tailor already bristling like an outraged porcupine – and stood beneath the man’s measuring cords. After a couple of minutes, the man fished another two pairs of hose, two shirts, two tunics, and two pairs of leather slippers. “Take them,” he growled, “any rips or tears, you have to tend to yourself. They’re a bit big so you can grow into ‘em. I don’t want to see you for three months either.”

The feeling’s mutual, Alex thought, but didn’t say so. “Master Tailor,” he said, with a  nod, and then beat a hasty retreat from the beast’s lair. He leaned against the door, and faced Selwyn, whose expression was filled with a sympathetic smile.

“Alright,” Alex sighed. “What do we do next?”

Selwyn clapped him on the back, and Alex winced from the obvious strength in the strike, friendly intent or not. Selwyn didn’t seem to notice his grimace. “We go and find your rooms,” Selwyn said, “you get changed, and we get settled in. You’ve arrived on the last day, as classes and real training start tomorrow. You cut it very fine, you know that?”

Alex shrugged, and pointed out, “Tirragen’s not exactly close by.”

“Neither is Pearlmouth,” retorted Selwyn. “But then again, I spent the summer in Corus. Easier than going home and back again. You should try it, next year.”

This did not require a response; Alex remained quiet, letting Selwyn continue to talk. He didn’t require encouragement. After a turn and a staircase, they came to a long corridor, and Selwyn gestured grandly.

“Lo and behold, the pages’ wing!”

Sixteen boys, most of them attired in tunics and breeches, not having yet changed into their uniforms, stood clustered in small groups talking or popping in and out of rooms. The corridor was chaotic, as they filled the space with talk and movement. Alex spotted Aramis at one of the doors, and slipped through the knots of boys until he reached his door, quickly slipping inside. Aramis closed it behind Alex, and leaned against the wall.

“Timon has seen to it that the valises have been delivered here,” he said. “I took the liberty of unpacking for both of us.”

Alex’s impassive mask broke into a smile at that. “Thank you, Aramis,” he said, rather touched by the gesture. Aramis waved a hand, brushing the thanks away casually.

“Think nothing of it. You will want to get changed,” he said, rather dryly, “lest your grip on that finery crinkle it.”

Alex ducked his head to hide his sheepishness, as he quickly stripped and changed into his gear. The scarlet of the shirt and hose and the cloth-of-gold tunic would look well, the belt would hold his two daggers neatly, but dear gods...

“I hope we don’t wear this gear while practising,” he said, glancing at Aramis. Aramis gave a small shrug.

“Probably not. No-one sensible would expect a bunch of boys your age to keep such things clean, day in and day out,” Aramis said. Alex nodded, then took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. To no avail.

He lifted his head and smiled at Aramis, more confidently than he felt. That would be the trick of it, maybe; to not show that they scared him.

“I’m going to jump in,” he said. “Alright?”

Aramis nodded, opening for the door for him, murmuring in a low voice as he passed, “Just like with wolves, Alexander – don’t show fear.”

Funny, he’d been repeating the same thing to himself.

Selwyn emerged from the door opposite his, after a few seconds. “Come on,” he said to Alex when he noticed him there, “I’ll introduce you.”

Selwyn dived into the knot of boys, introducing him to the other second-years. There was Elias of Kennan, who was redheaded and blue-eyed eyes; Oliver of Tameran, a cousin of Selwyn’s. But where Selwyn was dark-complected with darker eyes, Oliver had pale skin and light brown eyes. Finally, there was Maximilian of Josu’s Dirk, whose green eyes glimmered with a strong Gift. Alex wondered at that; he thought most Gifted boys would choose to become sorcerers, training their Gift to the most they could. Although, if Maximilian was an heir, it would not be surprising that he had chosen the traditional path of knighthood.

An unpleasant voice cut into the introductions.

“Well, well, it’s the sand-scut brat.”

Alex spun around. Sure enough, Ralon of Malven was standing there, a smirk in his pale blue eyes and playing over his mouth.

“Malven,” he greeted through clenched teeth. “Here I was thinking that horse-dung is kept _out_ of the Palace. Your manners are as bad as ever.”

The smug smile slipped off Ralon’s face, replaced with an ugly glare, as he sauntered up to Alex so that Alex had to tilt his head up to glare at him. “Manners are for nobles, not for a sand-scut,” Ralon hissed. “And don’t you forget it.”

Alex’s vision tinted red, and he tensed, readying to spring. A firm hand clapped on his shoulder, and he heard Selwyn’s voice from beside him.

“Back _off_ , Malven. Nobody likes you here. And I dislike you so much that I don’t care if I get punishment work before the first day of page training even begins. _Piss off_.” 

Ralon blustered, as he stepped back from the bigger boy.

“You’re just lucky that I do care about his Grace’s good opinion. Otherwise you’d be in for it!”

Selwyn yawned. “As you say, Malven.” Ralon glared, but turned on his heel and stalked off. Selwyn glanced at Alex. “I take it you know Malven already?”

Alex nodded. “Malven borders on Tirragen to the northwest, so I’ve met Ralon a few times before.” All of them deeply unpleasant times which usually ended with him fighting with Ralon physically, if he couldn’t control his temper.

Elias’ cool voice interjected, as he and the other second-years came to stand alongside them, “He makes too much trouble for himself.”

Maximilian snorted. “Forgive me if I don’t weep from grief of it, Elias. Malven earned the hatred of our year when he told his Grace the truth of his fight with me.”

Alex frowned. “Why did that fight start?” he asked, curious. Josu’s Dirk was to the north, along the Scanran border; Ralon couldn’t use the slurs he used on Alex to provoke and shame Maximilian.

Maximilian’s green eyes darkened. “He kept taunting me about having the Gift,” he said, “so I decided to prove to him that I didn’t need to use it to whip him.”

“Sounds like Ralon,” Alex said. Elias shrugged.

“At any rate, surely there are more important things to talk about,” he said. “Selwyn, I take it that you’re going to sponsor Alex here?”

Selwyn nodded, adding with another grin, “I’m surely not cruel enough to leave him to Ralon’s tender mercies.”

“Praise be,” Alex muttered under his breath. A thought occurred to him, and he cocked his head, as he asked Elias, “Hold on. How did you know?”

“Process of elimination,” Elias said. “There are five pages in the second year, and four in the first. Maximilian, Oliver and I already have our protégés–”

“We have our what?” Oliver asked.

“Protégés. The pages we’re sponsoring,” Elias simplified. “In fact– you probably haven’t met your year-mates yet, have you, Alex?”

Alex shook his head. “I really only just arrived here,” he said, with a swallow. Elias smiled. “Excellent, then we’ll introduce you to them now.” With that, he walked a few doors down and knocked. “Gary! Come on out!”

Maximilian was already knocking at another door. “Raoul! Francis! Come out!”

Within moments, three tousled heads – one brunet, one black, and one blond – were poking out of one door.

“You called, lords and masters?” the brunet commented sarcastically. Elias smiled, beckoning for them to come out into the corridor.

“We did,” he said. “You have a new year-mate. Alexander of Tirragen, may I present to you Raoul of Goldenlake,” gesturing to the boy with the cap of black curls, “Francis of Nond,” the blond, “and the boy I’m sponsoring, Gareth the Second of Naxen. Boys, meet Alex.”

They all shook hands. Gareth’s eyes were narrowed, until he said, “I can’t remember ever seeing your parents at Court.”

Alex shook his head. “Father died a few years ago, and Mother prefers to keep to the fief,” he replied.

“Oh.” Gary reddened. “I’m sorry.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose. “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

Gary looked a little startled. “No, I didn’t  – I meant, sorrow for your loss,” he said.

“Ah.” He couldn’t help but feel a little sheepish at that. Then a large hand – Raoul’s, it seemed – clapped him on the shoulder. He winced. Was this shoulder-clapping habit some strange Western non-Hill Country thing? Some odd cultural difference?

“Were you raised by wolves, Alex?” Raoul asked, his smile cheerful.

Alex smiled back, a little; it was hard not to. Raoul radiated boisterous goodwill to the world. Not a shred of deception hung from his words.

“Yes. My wolf mother sent me to the Palace, as she was sick of scolding me for not eating my meat neatly,” he said, face not twitching.

Raoul laughed. “Sounds like mine,” he replied. “She sent me off with a flea in my ear.”

“Yes, but at least yours can’t give you more fleas in your ears,” Gary interjected. “My mother _lives_ at Court. So she can still scold me.”

“No fear of that,” said Piers. “Scolding requires time and for you to stand still. You’ll be run off your feet so much you won’t have either.”

“Comforting,” Alex said.

“Exactly,” Selwyn agreed, and Alex started – he’d almost forgotten that Selwyn was still there, standing in the corridor with them all. And Francis hadn’t spoken so much as a single word. Shy, perhaps. Maybe he would talk more if the older pages weren’t around, but it would probably rude to try and leave their sponsors.

Still. Rude or no, there were duties to attend to, and that included checking on Athos and Porthos.

He turned to Selwyn. “Selwyn, do you know where the Guardsmen are billeted?” he asked.

Selwyn raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Could you take me there, please?” Alex asked.

“Why?” asked Selwyn, his eyes glinting with curiosity.

Quickly, Alex explained the situation with the three Guardsmen. Selwyn blinked and raised his eyebrows.

“Your brother detailed _three_ Guardsmen to stay at the Palace? Just to keep an eye on you?” he asked, his eyes amused. “Just how much trouble did you get into at home?”

Alex felt his cheeks warm. But it was…a not unreasonable point.

Miranda had frequently joked that it was a good thing that Duncan and Alex had equal amounts of energy, as it gave each one a brother who they could exhaust themselves alongside. The joke had plenty of substance to it.

For the past five years, he had spent every second month riding the fief with a group of fifteen men: Athos, Porthos, Aramis, Captain Sanya, Duncan, Sergeant Connor and Connor’s squad. ‘Riding the fief’ entailed riding, learning woodcraft, tracking, hunting, dagger-work, archery, the sling, the history of Tirragen, the kinds of crops the communities within the fief cultivated, and many other things. It took a solid month with each excursion because where one fief might have one town or two of several hundred people, Tirragen had about fifteen villages, each numbering between one hundred and two hundred people.

“I didn’t really get into _trouble_ ,” he said.

Selwyn’s eyebrows rose further. “Did your relatives use the words ‘scapegrace’, ‘tearaway’ or ‘hellion’ to describe you?”

All three, at different points, and on one occasion Jason had used all three at once, but Selwyn didn’t need to know _that_ much.

“Yes,” Alex admitted grudgingly.

“Right. And your family sent _three_ Guardsmen with you, to try and keep you out of trouble,” Selwyn said, chuckling as they set off down the corridor.

“You’re never going to let me forget this, are you?” Alex asked.

Selwyn chuckled. “Oh, I might. When I’m toothless and struggling to eat porridge.”

“Comforting.”

“You really do love your sarcasm, don’t you, Alex?” Selwyn asked lightly as they went down a stair-case. He looked around, as if to check that nobody was there. “Alright. What’s your story?”

Alex’s smile grew a touch mirthless. “If I like sarcasm, you like being oblique. If by ‘what’s your story’, you mean ‘why are you so dark-skinned’–” Selwyn nodded – “my mother is a Bazhir. My father rescued her from being abandoned by her tribe, took her in, and a few years later, they married and had me.” A frown, as he asked, “And you? What’s _your_ story?”

Selwyn smiled. “Pearlmouth’s on the Tyran border,” he said, simply.

Alex frowned, as he tried to tease out the implications of that statement. “Your mother was Tyran?” A nod from Selwyn. That explained the complexion, Alex thought. “I see.”

“Not as romantic as your story, I’ll admit, though,” Selwyn said cheerfully, as he led them down another floor and out of the stairwell through a side-exit. It spilled onto the Palace’s western aspect, and Selwyn beckoned Alex out. “Come on – there’s a shortcut through the kitchen gardens.”

Alex obeyed, even as his frown darkened as he glanced up at the older boy. “Is that why you decided to sponsor me? Because we’re both dark?”

The idea felt…distasteful. As if he had been reduced to being nothing more than Bazhir. Which was odd, considering how proud he had always been of his Bazhir heritage.

“Partially,” Selwyn admitted. “It was hard at first, for me, being dark when everyone else in my year was so very light. But also because older pages are supposed to protect and help the pages who come after them, and if it wasn’t me, it would have been _Ralon_.”

That…wasn’t as bad. Less akin to being nothing more than a Bazhir, and more like Selwyn had chosen him because he didn’t want Alex to be hurt. It made the entire thing more about Selwyn’s compassion than about Alex being a Bazhir, which seemed right. 

“Fair enough, then,” Alex decided, as they cut through the kitchen gardens.

“I’m glad you think so,” Selwyn responded. “This would have been awkward, if you didn’t.”

They arrived at a barracks door, and at an encouraging nod from Selwyn, Alex knocked. It swung open a few minutes later, with Porthos filling the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Alexander,” Porthos rumbled. “Is everything alright?”

Alex craned his neck to look up at him. “That’s what I was coming to ask you,” he said. “I wanted to check on you and Athos.”

Porthos grinned. “You were worried about us levelling the guardsmen’s barracks, eh?” He stepped aside to let Alex in. “As you can say, the building is still standing.”

“Aye, though how long it’s likely to keep standing with hill barbarians like you in it–” jeered one of the other Guardsmen. Porthos turned around and lifted his middle finger up at the soldier.

“Not in front of the youngling, you bastard!” Porthos bellowed. Alex glanced at Athos, who was quietly putting his things into a small chest of drawers. His face was as impassive as ever, but he gave Alex a nod, an expression which he could load with meaning. In this case, Alex judged it as an ‘all’s well’, possibly with a side of ‘don’t worry about it.’

“Not a problem, Porthos,” Alex said, smiling up at the man-mountain. “I’ll leave you to get settled in. Try not to break anybody if you start wrestling, yes?”

Porthos sketched a bow.

“A request from my master is as a command from Mithros,” he proclaimed. Alex snorted a laugh before he waved a hand in farewell and exited.

“Yes, I think they’re settling in nicely,” he said to Selwyn.

“Good thing it didn’t take much longer,” said Selwyn. “We’ve still got to wait on the Court tonight.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose, and Selwyn grinned. “Oh, come on,” he said. “You can’t tell me you didn’t realise that pages wait on people?”

 “No,” Alex said, “that’s exactly what I’m telling you. I thought the emphasis in training to be a knight was on, you know–” he groped for words. Selwyn supplied them.

“Weapons? Learning to fight?”

“Yes!”

“Alas, no,” Selwyn said, with a grimace and shaken fist that would be the envy of any Player. “We are not mercenaries who can happily spend their entire lives engaged in swordfights, nor Guardsmen who can do the same, save when their lord bids them do otherwise. We are _nobles_.”

Alex rubbed his head. “You and I are both new nobles. Third generation at _most_. Yes?”

“Correct,” Selwyn said, apparently undismayed by merely being in the Book of Copper.

“So you and I both know that the reason our families _were_ ennobled was either because we decided to side with the Old King, or because – this is how my father told the tale – we were _very_ good at fighting, _and_ clever enough to keep our people in line. Yes?”

“Your Grandfather must have been a very interesting fellow,” commented Selwyn.

“Grandmother, actually,” said Alex. “The point stands. Am I right?”

“Yes,” said Selwyn, as they traced their path back through the kitchen gardens.

“So what does waiting on people have to _do_ with it?” Alex asked, unable to keep the frustration from his voice.

Selwyn ruffled Alex’s hair. “Why, Alex, surely you know that one of the purposes of a knight is to serve as a model for shiny weapons and armour. In order to do that, the knight must know how to stand still, which is what he learns as a page, until required to move.”

“Very funny. Why do we _actually_ have to do it?”

“His Grace would probably say it had to do with learning how to serve others, that no job is too dirty for a noble, and that it teaches us humility.”

Alex contemplated this for a while, and gave a grudging nod. "Alright, I can see that. But I still think that learning how to fight is more exciting.”

“Uncultured hill barbarian,” Selwyn teased.

“Coastal idiot.” Alex retorted. “Alright, then, Selwyn. Where do we go next?”

“Follow me.”

* * *

Master Hans glared disapprovingly at Alex, as the nine pages in first and second year lined up before him. Most of the third and fourth-year pages had already been permanently assigned to wait on a noble, and had already gone to assume their positions, bowls of rose-water in hand and towels slung over their forearms.

Perhaps that was harsh. The stooped, white-haired man seemed to be glaring at most of the pages. He moved among them quickly, barking out names to the second-years, and within less than thirty seconds, all five senior pages had gathered up their rosewater bowls and towels and were walking quickly out the door.

“Naxen, go to my lady of Dunlath,” Master Hans continued. “Goldenlake, to my lord of Tirrsmont.” Raoul’s face twitched at that, but he nodded, picking up his bowl of rosewater and towel. “Nond, to my lord of Hannalof.” Alex followed Francis and collected his own bowl and towel, and turned to the etiquette master, waiting.

“Boy.”

Yes, the disapproving glare was now fully aimed at Alex. He felt his skin itch under the weight of its disdain.

“Yes, Master?”

“You will go and wait on…” Hans glanced at a seating chart and then his face went from a scowl to a grin disconcertingly fast. “My lord of Stone Mountain.”

Alex swallowed. “Master Hans, how may I recognise him?”

The grin widened, gaining a distinctly evil tinge. “Long white blond-hair, pale blue eyes, sits near my lord Carolan of Runnerspring.”

The Lord of Runnerspring whom Alex had never met, and Master Hans knew it.

Alright, Alex thought, trying to maintain his composure. This is obviously a test. And supposed to upset me. Mama was right.

Feeling unsettled, he nodded to Master Hans, and hurried after Francis. Looking around, he steadied his grip on the bowl and looked around. White-blond hair, white-blond… _ah_.

He walked, attempting to be quick without sloshing the rose-water onto his clothing or onto the floor, and hurried over to the table. Several other pages – some of them aiming sneers at him in between offering the rose-water and towel – were already stationed there.

The white-haired lord twisted in his seat to glare at Alex.

“About time, boy,” he said, with a scowl.

Alex bit down on his tongue, smoothed his face to impassiveness, and stepped forward, offering the rose-water. The Lord dipped his hands in it, and dried his hands on the towel, while commenting to his friends, “I really don’t know what page training’s coming to. In our days, a bastard like this one–” he jerked a thumb at Alex without bothering to look over his shoulder “– would never have been admitted.”

A low laugh from the man with stringy brown hair beside him. “Indeed. So much of the country that the Old King conquered, good only for being crushed, eh?”

 _Hold. I will_ _not_ _lose my temper_ , Alex thought, his hands tightening on the rose-water bowl. He tried to even his breaths, like Duncan did when he was very angry.

From his position opposite, in the shadow behind one of the Lords – so that was what the Lord of Tirrsmont looked like– Raoul shot Alex a smile, in reassurance. He tried to muster a weak smile.

Another laugh. “Aye, crushed, beneath the heel, or whipped like a cur,” leered one of the lords.

Alex’s grip grew tighter on the bowl. He felt cold, as thunder roared in his ears. His knuckles went white, and the bowl sloshed.

All over the new hose and tunic.

The Lord of Stone Mountain twisted about at the noise, as did the nobles next to him.

“So, the savage shames himself already,” sneered Stone Mountain. “Go back to Master Hans, boy. I can live without being waited on for a while, until some… _suitable_ page is found.”

Alex bit down harder on his lip. Turned on one heel and walked away, back out of the banqueting hall. His leather slippers squelched; his hose was sticking to his skin uncomfortably. But, most horrifying of all, he could feel the hot prickle of tears that threatened to destroy his mask.

I will _not_ let Master Hans see me cry, he thought, fiercely. I _won’t_.

He stepped back into the alcove and set the rosewater and towel down. He bowed to Master Hans, and spoke, without rising from the bow: “My Lord of Stone Mountain requests that he be waited upon by a new page, and has dismissed me.”

He left unspoken: you deliberately set this up. _Why?_ What good does it do you? You _knew_ this would happen!

There was an unsuppressed note of glee in Master Hans’ voice. “No doubt he did, since you’ve become so nervous as to get yourself soaked. Too eager for your bath, eh?”

From sheer humiliation, he felt the tears begin to flow.

“May I be excused from banquet attendance, Master Hans?”

He dared glance up and saw the smirk hovering on Master Hans’ face. “You may, boy. Go and get yourself cleaned up. You look like a disgrace.”

Something which _you_ engineered, Alex felt like shouting. Something which _you_ wanted.

Instead, he bowed again, and walked past the man, only rubbing at his eyes once he was past Master Hans’ field of vision.

He found the staircase and ascended two floors, and then hurried to his room. He flung open the door. Aramis looked up from his book, startled. His face became concerned.

“Alex?”

Alex just shook his head, and stripped off his wet hose and tunic. Aramis held out his hands, and Alex passed the clothing to him. Aramis reached up and draped the finery over a privacy screen.

“Rose water?” asked Aramis.

Alex nodded.

“It should dry fairly easily then, and not stain.” 

Shivering, now, Alex wriggled under the covers of his bed.

Aramis looked at him, brown eyes steady and inquiring. “Alex,” he said, very softly. “Lad. What’s wrong?”

Swallowing, Alex looked down. For some reason, the thought of having to _express_ what had just happened was awful. As though if he spoke of what had just happened, he would relive it. Yet the tear-tracks that were still hot on his face made it clear that it needed to come out _somehow_ , this anger, this sadness, this shame. As Alex recounted the evening to Aramis, Aramis’ face grew stormy, worried, and then finally stony as he shook his head.

“Smug and arrogant and proud,” he said. “That will be their downfall one day.”

Alex cracked a smile at that. Aramis had once had ambitions to be a Mithran priest, until being a Guardsman became the way he could support his ailing parents. But he still retained the priestly air at times.

“Maybe,” he said. “In the meantime – what do I _do_?”

Aramis squeezed his shoulder. “Lad, if you’re going through the Realms of Chaos, there’s only one thing to do.”

“Which is?”

Aramis’ smile was wry. “Keep going – and get plenty of sleep. You’ve a reprieve; use it.”

Alex, emotionally exhausted,  nodded at that. “Night prayer, then sleep,” he said, with a yawn.

“You could probably forego the prayer tonight,” Aramis said. Alex shook his head.

“They called me ‘savage’,” he mumbled. “Don’t want to forget that I’m a Bazhir. Don’t want–” he groped for words. “If I forget, if they make me forget that, they win. And Bazhirs pray before they sleep,” he said.

Aramis’ nod was grave. “Athos and Porthos and I will remind you,” he promised. “We won’t let you forget.”

Alex smiled. “’sgood,” he murmured, as weariness overtook him.

“ _If I should die before I wake, I pray the Black God my soul to take,_

 _and if I die before I sleep, I pray that god my soul to keep_ ,” he prayed, only then allowing himself to shut his eyes.

I really hope it gets better, he thought. Four years of this is a nightmare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Lord Burchard of Stone Mountain and his cronies are getting a head-start on learning rudeness and bigotry, that's for sure.
> 
> Master Hans is Master Oakbridge's less good-natured predecessor. Also a bigot.
> 
> From what I've extrapolated, Malven is part of Hill Country. Eda Bell self-identifies as a hill woman and says she was raised southwest of Malven, before she ran off and joined the Shang. The bit about it bordering Tirragen may well be nonsense; so far as I'm aware, TP has no maps delineating fief boundaries within Hill Country, so I'm playing with it. The bit about Tirragen's fief size is extrapolated from the sheer size of Lake Tirragen; my headcanon is that Tirragen's border spans from Lake Tirragen to the Drell River, bordering on Malven to the northwest, Eldorne to the due north and Sinthya to the northeastish. It being a geographic block also makes sense for the original treason of the characters, even though this is an AU of that, and those reasons were never fleshed out in canon.
> 
> The 'old King' is an in-universe nickname for Jasson.


	3. The First Day

Alex groaned as his dream was ended by the ringing of the Palace bells. He buried his face under his pillow. Surely he wasn’t actually expected to get up and dress at such an unholy hour.

But no, there was a pair of strong hands on his shoulder, shaking him, and wresting the pillow from him.

“Alex. Alex, wake up.”

That was Aramis’ voice. Alex opened his eyes.

Aramis looked at him expectantly.

“It’s dawn,” he said. “You need to pray, and then dress.”

Alex clenched his teeth, as he remembered. Arriving at the Palace. The insults. The humiliation.

He rolled out of his bed, and folded himself into position on the floor, prostrate, knees tucked up to his chest, arms extended out in front of him. From memory, he recited the ritual words for the dawn prayer. Then he rose. Aramis held out the hose, shirt and tunic.

“Quickly,” Aramis said. “Or you’ll be late.”

Alex sighed, as he tugged the hose on, and then the shirt. Patiently, Aramis helped Alex into the tunic and with the belt.

“Go on! Scat!” the man instructed, hustling Alex out the door. Alex hopped on one foot as he tried to slip on the leather shoe, lost his balance, and fell against the heavy wood of the door.

“Ugh,” Alex managed.

There was a warm chuckle, and Selwyn grinned down at Alex.

“Want a hand with that shoe?” he offered.

Alex shook his head, and successfully wrestling the shoe on.

Selwyn looked at Alex, his eyebrows bouncing. “You don’t talk much in the mornings, do you?”

Alex shook his head. Conversation would not come to him with ease until a couple of hours later. It was the rising at dawn. Even when he rode the fief with the squad, they knew better than to ask questions requiring more than a nod or a shake of the head until about midmorning. And when he was at Castle Tirragen, the day began with breakfast in the eighth hour of the morning.

“That’s alright,” Selwyn decided, slapping Alex on the shoulder. “I can talk enough for the both of us.”

Alex nodded at that. Selwyn continued to chatter as they went to the small pages’ dining hall. The other first-year pages and their sponsors had already staked out a large table, but thankfully there were two chairs that had been left vacant for Alex and Selwyn. At both places, a plate already sat, heaped with bacon, eggs and toast. Alex glanced up at Selwyn, uncertain, even though his stomach growled loudly.

“Elias!” Selwyn grinned at the hazel-eyed boy, sitting down to one of the chairs and kicking out the other for Alex. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” said Elias, calmly biting into a sandwich. “Next time, though, you both have to get them yourselves.”

“Good morning, Alex, Selwyn,” Gary greeted them both cheerily. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough, thanks,” said Selwyn, beginning to tuck into his plate. “I don’t know about Alex here, though.”

Alex speared a rasher of bacon and began to eat.

Gary examined him, looking indulgent. “You don’t talk much?”

_Not before the seventh hour of the morning. Is that so remarkable?_

“Gary, lay off,” said Elias, chiding his protégé. “Not everybody’s a morning person like you are.”

_See? Elias gets it._

“Still, most people try for a greeting,” Gary persisted.

 _Most people are idiots_ , thought Alex, shooting Gary a baleful glare. Gary dropped his eyes, embarrassed, sensing that he had gone a little too far, before Elias cut in smoothly.

“First class of the day is reading and writing with the Mithran priests, as some boys can’t when they arrive.”

Alex bit into his toast. _Unlucky them_.

“After that, it’s mathematics with Master Yayin, and following _that_ , deportment.”

Alex felt like groaning. Aside from the mathematics, it sounded like a hellish morning. “Following that, we have a ten minute break, and then we have class with Sir Myles,” Selwyn chipped in.

Alex’s brows rose. A knight was a teacher?

“He teaches history, Tortallan law and politics,” Maximilian elaborated.

Alex frowned, chewing the bacon. _All in the same class? How long does it go for?_

“You’ll like Sir Myles, I think,” continued Elias, with a glance at Gary to ensure the table knew who the ‘you’ was. “He’s very sharp, but very kind. Although he might be nursing a hangover.”

The frown deepened. _His Grace appointed a drunkard to teach three subjects? How odd._

Elias' politely ignored Alex’s scowl, and brightened. “After Sir Myles’ class, we have our precious hour of lunch, then philosophy. And then it’s onto fighting classes for the afternoon,” his face fell again as he mentioned this last. Not so surprising; Elias’ blue eyes were often distant, and he seemed to play peacemaker a lot. He didn’t seem to be the type to enjoy fighting.

Alex, however, felt a great deal more cheerful.

“What are the fighting classes, though?” Francis asked.

_Great Mithros. He speaks._

Which was a bit hypocritical, given how Alex had said precisely nothing at all that morning. Still, it was literally the first time Francis had spoken over the past twenty-four hours.

Oliver of Tameran responded. “First, there’s an hour of stretching and warm-ups, so nobody pulls a muscle. Next comes the hour of staff-work, an hour of hand to hand with the Shang Butterfly, an hour of shield-work, an hour of archery, and then an hour on horseback.”

The eyes of the first year pages were wide as saucers. At last, Gary spoke. “Every _day_ , like that?”

Elias nodded, smiling ruefully. “Look on the bright side, it might not be as exhausting for a miniature giant like yourself as it will be for me.”

Maximilian sighed. “And we get to start wearing our harnesses today, too.”

Alex tilted his head to the side in question, and Selwyn explained. “We – the older pages – have to wear harnesses, which are weighed with lead. Two pounds extra weight. His Grace increases the amount they weigh every four months or so by amounts of two pounds, and we have to go through _everything_ wearing them. It’s practise for wearing armour.”

Alex placed his head in his hands. _No wonder Jason tried to warn me against coming. Forget the Ordeal, the training IS the Ordeal._ The Duke of Naxen’s voice echoed in his mind: “If you would have privilege, you must pay that price.”

He breathed deeply, and recalled his mother’s face. Black hair veiled by silvery cloth, her features so like his, her gentle smile. _For Mama,_ he reminded himself. _And all the girls after her._

A thought occurred to him, and he gave a soft chuckle. Selwyn’s eyebrows shot up.

“Care to share the joke, Alex?” he asked.

Alex smiled wryly. “I was just hoping that Captain Sanya’s training was good preparation.” Selwyn chuckled at that.

“Let’s hope that your oversupply of energy is up to it.” He rose, gesturing for Alex to do the same. “Come on, let’s go test if you’re literate.”

Alex followed him, wry grin dropping to be replaced by a frown. The scraping of chairs behind them indicated that the other boys were following. “Of course I am. Don’t be silly, Selwyn.”

The Mithran priests instructed the pages in reading and writing. Unlike Master Hans, the etiquette master, they didn’t glare at Alex or drip with disdain whenever they approached him. They quizzed him on what he knew, and didn’t – and after some surprise when he told them about being fluent in Barzunni, Tortallan and Hurdik – they eventually assigned him a set of reading exercises in Common Eastern. When Alex didn’t finish them within the hour, Selwyn hushed him, explaining, “You’ll have to do them tonight, after dinner.”

By then it was time for mathematics with Master Yayin, another orange-robed priest, which was much better. He assigned Alex several word problems to be solved with algebra, which Alex solved without much difficulty. Much to Alex’s delight, this meant there was no work from mathematics to do that night.

His good mood lasted as long as it took for them to go from mathematics to deportment. Selwyn gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, before they filed into the classroom, and Alex found himself once more assailed by the haughty glare of Master Hans.

The second-year pages were set to learning how to dance, with the smaller boys being assigned to follow. The third-year pages were already practising the art of polite conversation, in pairs, and the fourth-years were practising bows. The dancing was overseen by Master Hans’ assistants, as he himself tended to the first years, checking whether they could play a musical instrument or sing, leaving Alex till last.

“Well, boy?” asked Master Hans, raising an eyebrow. “Can you play a musical instrument?”

Alex contented himself with matching the man’s icy glare.

“Yes, Master Hans, I have some skill with the saz.”

The eyebrows rose; the frostiness of the stare increased. “You have some skill with _what_ , boy?”

Alex made sure his breaths were even and slow. “A saz, sir. You would say, a lute.”

Master Hans was obviously disappointed by this answer. “Then say “lute”, boy. Very well. How is your bowing?”

Alex bowed, and gritted his teeth as Master Hans laughed. “A good bow, for a pig farmer. Here,” Alex straightened up, and felt the wind rush out of him, as Master Hans shoved a thick tome into his middle. _You timed that deliberately,_ he thought, as his legs fell out from under him. “Read the first two chapters of that tonight,” Master Hans ordered, “and an hour of practise with your lute. In the meantime, you may join the second-years in learning how to dance.”

 _Oh, brilliant_. Ralon was the only boy currently without a partner. Grimacing, Alex joined him.

“Sand-scut,” Ralon greeted him.

“One of these days, Malven, you should think of a new insult,” Alex informed him. He grimaced as Ralon’s hand wrapped around his.

The music began, with a stately rhythm.

Ralon’s pale blue eyes darkened, and Alex bit back a yelp as Ralon trod heavily on his foot.

“My apologies,” Ralon hissed, his pale mouth flaring red with the lie.

“Are not worth the air you say them with,” Alex retorted, before he was passed from Ralon to Maximilian.

“You just ended a sentence with a preposition. Tsk,” Maximilian informed him, his expression neutral but his eyes dancing with amusement. “And you’re stepping wrong. You don’t need to lift your foot that high for this dance.”

By the time deportment ended, Alex was out of breath, his chest heaving from the exertion. As punishment for all the second-years had forgotten over the summer, Master Hans had made his students practise the galliard three times in a row, a dance which contained more leaping, hopping, and lifting than any dance had a right to. The second-years were even more out of breath, having had to do it in their lead-weighted harnesses.

Selwyn gave him a weak, ragged smile, between pants. “I – thought – it went – well,” he huffed.

Alex considered the previous night, and how Master Hans had behaved to him then, and gasped his agreement. “Could – have been – worse.”

The pages collapsed on a bench in one of the inner courtyards of the palace. Despite their exhaustion, they all remembered to put the quills, parchments and books down, so that they would not break. By consensus, the ten minutes of the morning break were spent in silence, recovering their breath.

All too soon, though, the bell rang again.

“Damnation and hellfire,” Selwyn grumbled.

Elias was more sanguine. “At least it’s Sir Myles’ class.”

They picked up their parchment and quills and hurried down the corridors, until they came to another door. Selwyn and Raoul leaned their shoulders against it, and pushed it open. It was a large classroom, with the pages’ desks facing a wall with maps plastered all over it: the Olorun valley and surrounding fiefs, the Grimhold Mountains, the Scanran border , the Great Roads North, East and South, the Great Southern Desert, and Hill Country. Tortall, and surrounding kingdoms. The Emerald Ocean, with Yaman and Jindazhen. To the south, the Carthaki Empire.

“Sir Myles teaches geography?” Alex asked quietly.

Selwyn shrugged. “History, law, politics. But he likes to keep the maps out to show where the battles and history took place.”

The pages had only just sat down when the door swung open. A short knight in a rumpled tunic and hose entered, his hose sagging at the knee and tunic constraining an impressive gut. But his green-brown eyes were kind, and sparkled with a formidable intelligence as they met Alex’s.

“Good morning, class,” he greeted the pages. “I take it we have a new crop of victims?”

Alex’s eyebrows rose, as the older boys chuckled. Elias performed the introductions.

“Sir Myles, may I present to you Gareth II of Naxen, Raoul of Goldenlake, Francis of Nond, and Alexander of Tirragen.”

The knight gave a short bow, with surprising nimbleness, and they returned it.

“You are all very tough to have made it this far,” Sir Myles said, perching on his desk and picking up a long pointer. “It’s impressive, given how difficult life as a page is.”

Selwyn spoke out of the corner of his mouth as he set his books down on the desk. “Sir Myles doesn’t agree with the Code of Chivalry.”

“I heard that, Selwyn of Pearlmouth,” Sir Myles said, with a bitter chuckle. Selwyn flushed, but Sir Myles waved off the stammered apology. “No offence taken. It’s an understatement.”

_He disagrees with the Code? Why?_

“You disagree with the _Code_?” Gary asked, his tone astonished. It was as though it had never occurred to him. Then again, with Duke Gareth of Naxen for a father, it probably hadn’t.

“Yes,” Sir Myles replied. “The Code exacts a terrible, awful cost from nobles, and privilege isn’t worth it. And each year, more boys come to the Palace to follow in their fathers’ footsteps and the fine, honourable traditions tell them to go ahead and pay the price in return for glory, which doesn’t really exist.”

Alex frowned. That there was a terrible price to pay for the Code – well, Duke Gareth’s missing finger was proof of that. But even if glory didn’t exist, so what? There were more important things bound up in the Code than a promise of glory. There was duty and honour and law, the things which bound a realm together.

“Sir Myles,” Elias sighed, evidently wishing to avoid the confrontation. “May we skip the usual argument about the Code?”

Myles’ eyes glimmered with amusement. “Ah, Elias, you would deprive an old fogey such as myself of his fun?” Alex did not believe the ‘fogey’ part for an instant. Old, yes. Still smelling of last night’s wine, yes. As out of place in the elegant palace as a sore thumb given his dishevelled, _messy_ appearance, yes.

Fogey? Hah!

Sir Myles continued, happily oblivious to Alex’s train of thought. “Very well, then. Where were we last lesson, boys?”

Selwyn raised his hand. “Please, Sir Myles, we haven’t had any lessons for three months.”

Sir Myles sighed. “Very well. We will have to begin a new unit, until his Grace draws my attention to my next great deficiency. Therefore, let us begin with the Conquest of the Southern Coast.”

The pointer stabbed to the coastal hills along Tortall’s south, at King’s Reach, just south of Legann.

“The earldom of King’s Reach, prior to the Conquest of the Southern Coast, was the southernmost point of Tortall. Hence the name, ‘King’s Reach’; a way for the King who created the fief to say, ‘look how far my reach extends.’ Can anyone tell me when King’s Reach was established?”

Selwyn’s hand was first in the air. “In the year of 195 H.E., by Jonathan I of Conté. It was one of his last acts as King.”

Myles nodded. “Very good, Selwyn. One of the missions of King Jasson was to expand the borders of the Tortallan kingdom as far as he could.”

_No, really? I’m shocked, utterly shocked!_

“As many of you already know.”

_Oh, good! You realise we have minds!_

“He actually created many reforms in the kingdom of Tortall to allow this,” Myles added. “And was one of those kings who, in politics as in war, was akin to a force of nature.”

The green-brown eyes swept the room. “Among these reforms included changing the law so that women could be the heirs of property and of fiefs, and so that women could be ennobled in their own right. That particular reform, Jasson pushed through as he prepared to begin the conquest of the Southern Coast.”

The pointer circled the Great Southern Desert and stopped short of the Coastal Way.

“Before there was Tortall in the Great Southern Desert, there was a nation called Barzun there,” Myles continued. “Within the nation of Barzun, there were two kinds of people. The desert-dwellers, who name themselves the Bazhir, and think of themselves as part of it, to the point where the rule of Tortall over the desert is, to this day, an argument.”

By now, quill pens were furiously scratching notes onto parchment. Alex sat, entranced, quill still limp beside his scroll. He knew the language, Barzunni, but this piece of history was new, and something he had never learned before.

“However, Barzun’s weakness had always been in the history of mistrust, feuding and general bad blood between the Bazhir and the town-dwellers, who named themselves Barzunni. Had there been Bazhir riders to harass supply trains, raid siege lines, and so on, it would have been far more difficult for Jasson to conquer the towns which lined the Southern Coast.”

At this, Alex scribbled onto the parchment. _Item: weakness of nation of Barzun caused by feuding, grudges, revenge, bad blood. Weakness of Bazhir to Jasson caused by history of feuding also. Revenge, bad blood = exposing one’s people to High Risk._

As though on cue, Selwyn glanced at him, saw what he had written on the parchment, and smiled.

Selwyn scribbled: _The Players back home call it ‘Genre Savvy.’_

“However, King Jasson believed in doing his research prior to beginning a campaign,” continued Sir Myles. “Making him the most effect strategist, tactician and overall conqueror in Tortallan history. One of the battles in question was the battle of Disart,” he pointed to a town a few miles to the southwest of King’s Reach. “This was one of the first battles in the Southern Conquest. Jasson’s method was simple. Remove the court from Corus to King’s Reach, making it his base. From there, sweep down the Southern Coast, besieging town after town, until, after Pearlmouth was conquered, they’d take the Great Road South to Persopolis. He looked at Tyra, and considered it, but the terrain would have been excruciatingly difficult, and it would have required a long campaign to stabilise his grip on Tyra. It wouldn’t give him enough time to conquer Persopolis, and after that, Hill Country.”

Alex frowned. Yes, that did sound like the kind of calculations Jasson would have made, if his father’s tales of the old man were accurate.

He dipped his pen in the inkwell and continued to write.

Soon enough, the hour allotted to Sir Myles’ class was up, and they gathered the supplies up once more. “Where to now?” Alex enquired.

“Naptime,” Selwyn said, with a grin.

“Also known as Philosophy,” Elias sighed. “We listen to a stern lecture about duty and what it consists of, honour and what it consists of, and if we can’t, we fall asleep on our parchments. After that, lunch, then fighting classes in the afternoon.”

Alex was silent. “This will either be very good, or very bad,” he decided.

“One way to find out!” Selwyn said cheerfully.

* * *

Questions about right and wrong, good and evil, honour and duty and law, Alex reasoned, should have been _interesting_. It was the stuff stories and fairytales and history was made of.

However, their Philosophy teacher apparently had the gift of sucking all of the interesting things into a land far, far away. Jindazhen, probably, was where all the interestingness ended up. Maybe the Yamani Isles. Far, far too far away for any hapless group of pages to find it, that was for certain. In time-honoured fashion, Alex ended up falling asleep face first into his parchment, resulting in a smear of ink across his forehead. Selwyn agreed to pinch some sandwiches for him from the mess hall so he could clean up, and he wolfed down the sandwiches as he followed the boys out to fighting practise.

Much to his relief, they were not practising in their red and cloth-of-gold uniforms. Instead, they were in brown shirts, loose brown trousers and leather jerkins, as the drill sergeant began to lead them through stretches, tumbling, and falling. Fall, fall, fall into the mat, break the fall on your hands, roll to your feet. That was the theory, anyway. In practise, it went more like, fall, yelp in surprise at the impact, endure the jeers about shrieking like a girl, scramble awkwardly up, and then listen to the drill sergeant patiently and painstakingly enumerate every. Single. Mistake. Prior to demanding that you redo it, of course.

On and on the afternoon went, in physical training far more intense than anything Captain Sanya had ever put Alex through. The drill sergeant and the Shang Butterfly, despite her name, were absolutely merciless, in putting the pages through their paces. By the time it came for the hour on horseback, Alex was stumbling towards the stables to fetch Jaiyana. He tacked her up, thanking the gods that Sanya had always insisted on him riding the fief in his tack; it meant it was a task he could have accomplished in his sleep. Jaiyana nickered in concern, lipping at his hair. He gave a quiet, weary laugh.

“I’ll be alright, lovely,” he assured her, as he led her out of the stable. “I’ll make it through.” Jaiyana snorted at that, but accepted it as truth anyway. A grunt of exertion as he put his foot into the stirrup, and he was in the saddle. Surveying the world from Jaiyana’s back, Alex couldn’t help but smile. Being in the saddle made everything in the world better.

“Alright, ladies,” said Master Ulf, the horsemaster. “Let’s see you trot.” By now, Alex didn’t even blink. “Ladies”, “lassies” and so on were all fair play for their instructors to toss at the pages. Insults were just part of the process, Selwyn assured him.

 _And we still have to wait on people tonight,_ he thought, with a groan. _I wonder what tortures Master Hans will have for me tonight? I suppose they’re new every morning._

He shook his head firmly. Time enough for that after supper. For now, he returned his attention to the rise and fall of Jaiyana’s hooves. 

* * *

 

After supper came soon enough, and sure enough, it wasn’t going to be easy. Master Hans glared at Alex, and spoke in a tone cold enough that it should have started snowing indoors.

“Boy.”

He bowed. It was easier than hiding his disgust. “Yes, Master Hans?”

“Go and wait on my lord of Carolan, if you please,” Master Hans said.

‘If you please.’ Well, that was progress. Illusory as the nicety was – as if Alex could refuse! – it was more than Master Hans had done yesterday.

Lord Carolan, Runnerspring, black hair and brown eyes, if Alex remembered correctly. But he sat near the distinctive Lord of Stone Mountain, so it shouldn’t be to hard to figure out where the lord missing a page was.

There was the snowy-white head, sure enough. Alex cut across the floor, bowl of rosewater in his hand. This time, he made sure that his grip was sure, but relaxed. No need to give them the satisfaction of his messing up his uniform twice in one night.

There was an ounce of surprise in the eyes of the lords there.

“You again?” Stone Mountain asked, as Alex slid into position behind the Lord of Runnerspring, edging forward to offer the bowl. “I’m surprised. I thought you would have left last night.”

Alex was silent. Pages were to be seen and to serve, not to speak. That privilege would await them with their shields, it seemed.

Runnerspring snorted. “Don’t believe it, Burchard. Some of these savages are stubborn, mulish. It’s impossible to dislodge an idea from their heads, even if you had a hoe.”

Alex offered the towel, his reply snarky but entirely in his head. _Well, if I’m mulish, I guess you offer lessons in being pigheaded._ Lord Carolan dried his hands on the towel, and Alex made his way back to the kitchen with the other pages. As they loaded up on the dishes, he gripped the edge of the platter carefully. Not tightly, no (and heaven forbid the thought of staining the tunics with _these_.) He set it down before Lord Carolan.

“Boy,” Lord Carolan said, “inform Master Hans that I require another page. A more suitable one.”

Funny. He thought it would be less painful, the second time around. It wasn’t. The rejection stung, even if he didn’t care for the rejecter’s approval. He felt his cheeks warm, but was grateful that his ashamed flush was hidden by his skin tone. Silently, he made his way back to the kitchen and bowed to Master Hans.

“My lord of Carolan requires a more suitable page,” he said dully. Again, through his lashes, he peered up at Master Hans. Sure enough, there was a malevolent smirk on his face.

 _What can you possibly be getting out of this?_ Alex felt like shouting. _I’m ten years old, for pity’s sake!_

“You’re excused, Tirragen,” he said. “An hour’s punishment work in the stables for whatever you did to offend my lord of Carolan.”

He gritted his teeth, and nodded. “Good evening, Master Hans,” he said, making sure that his voice was bland. As soon as the door was shut, he took a long, deep, slow breath.

There was no time to worry about Master Hans, now that he was out of the room, logic pointed out coolly. He had other things to do. An hour of practise with the saz, an hour of punishment work in the stables, and two chapters of a deadly dull etiquette book to read. He groaned, as he tallied the numbers up in his head. It looked like it would be a long night ahead of him. The moment where he would collapse in his bed was looking further and further away.

_And this goes on for four years, and it’ll get worse, according to Selwyn! Aren’t you glad you signed up?_

 


	4. Reprieve

Akela was wide-eyed as they walked off the river barge onto the Corus docks. It wasn’t so much the whirl of folk, shouting, laughing, arguing and bustling. So much, she’d seen in other cities. It was the enormity of walking down the street that the burly stevedores pointed her parents towards, and realising that this would become her home. That hadn’t happened before. There hadn’t been a home, just one town after another. What would it be like, staying in one place for months, years? What would it be like, to not have to wake up and break camp in the mornings?

Melody glanced down at her. “Feeling alright, sweetling?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Akela smiled wanly up at her. “Just thinking, Ma.”

“So that’s where the smoke was coming from,” Ethan teased her, from her left side. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. It’ll be alright.”

Akela took a deep breath, and nodded. What was the worst that could happen?

That settled in her mind, she looked around the narrow street, curious. Little stores tucked away in the corners; mothers sitting on the stoops of their shacks, nursing babies and doing the mending. Their clothes were usually brown, or the pale yellow of undyed cloth spun from cotton, obviously worn for the heat of late summer. Very plain and thin clothes, too, even by Tortallan standards. There was the sweet smell of food being fried on grills coming on the summer breeze, along with the smell of dung and rubbish. Plenty of little service signs, showing that the houses doubled as shops for laundry, herbs, and charms. Children her age and younger played in the mud, older running after the younger. The place was so _alive_.

They rounded a corner and headed down another long street, a little more respectable. The roofs were wood, rather than thatched, and sturdier, and there were a few less pigs. Every other building had something on offer: charms, more laundry services, a large women’s bathhouse, a bakery, a butcher. Melody tugged Akela’s arm, and she jerked to a stop.

“We’re here,” Melody said, pointing to the building sandwiched between the bathhouse and the bakery. Akela looked up, at the painted sign; _The Dogrose_ was emblazoned on it, in curly writing, with a picture of the common pink flower beside it.

Ethan opened up the door, and bowed, sweeping a hand to invite Akela and Melody in first. Akela chuckled at her father’s playful invitation.

The door opened straight into the inn’s taproom. The shutters were opened, allowing the light to spill in, but the windows were closed. It was spacious, with a counter for drinks to be served, and tables scattered everywhere; one corner of the room was left free, with a little raised stage, and a fair-haired boy a few years older than her sat, rapping out a beat on a drum.

A cheerful, plump blonde woman in her mid-thirties, a little shorter than Melody, came bustling up to them, with a professional smile on her face over a look of shock. “Can I help you at all?” she asked, cheerfully.

Melody grinned. “Table for three, please. Oh, come off it, Harmony, don’t you recognise me?”

The plump lady’s jaw dropped. _“Melody?_ It’s really you?”

Melody curtseyed. “The one and only,” she said, her smile becoming a touch wry. “Didn’t you get the message we sent from Port Caynn, announcing that we’d come?”

Harmony shook her head. “The Rogue’s been interfering with the mail, again,” she said, dryly. “Which makes business more difficult than usual. And you’ve changed a fair bit in fourteen years.” She looked at Ethan and Akela, and smiled, squatting to meet Akela’s eye.

“Good to meet you, youngling. You must be my niece.”

Akela smiled back, and extended a hand. Harmony shook it. _So, this is my auntie,_ Akela thought, curiously. _Maybe she’s the innkeeper here?_

“Yes. My name’s Akela,” she said. She glanced up at her mother. “When was the last time you visited, Ma?”

“Fourteen years, sweetheart. Before I met your father and he joined the Rosehips.”

Melody turned to Harmony. “If you didn’t get our message, then you need to be told about why we’re here. Do you want to get Erik?”

“I’ll get him, and Akela can meet her cousins,” Harmony agreed. She went over to one of the doors on the far side of the room, and knocked out a beat. _Tac-tac!_

“Yes?” came back a voice.

“Visitors, love,” Harmony shouted. “My sister and her family. Come on out!”

A few seconds later, the door swung open, and a tall weather-beaten man, about forty or so, with plenty of laugh and frown lines both, came out. He looked like a Scanran, all blond, pale blue eyes, and fair skin. He approached them with a smile.

“Melody! Good to see you again, you haven’t changed a bit,” he kissed her on each cheek. He turned to Ethan with a wry grin. “You must be her man,” he said. “Good to meet you…”

“Ethan,” Ethan smiled, extending his hand. “And this is our daughter, Akela Ethansra.”

Erik grinned, and squatted as Harmony had done, to shake hands with Akela.

“Good to meet you too, Akela,” he said. “D’you want to come with me and meet your cousins?”

Akela considered, and nodded. It’d be good to do that at some point, and the sooner, the better.

Erik’s grin broadened. “Wonderful!” he turned to the boy on the drums, and whistled. “Hey! Henrik! Leave the practise and come join us!”

The blond boy’s head snapped up. Confused, he looked at his father. “But Isä, you said–”

Erik waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “We’ll find an hour where you can make up the rest of practise this evening, son. We have family visiting, right now, though. Find Ulrik and Frederik and then go into the yard. Get to know your cousin.”

“Alright, Isä.” Henrik beckoned Akela. “C’mon, let’s go.”

They passed through Erik’s study, which opened up into a pretty courtyard, with goats grazing on the grass, outside a chicken run. Henrik whistled, a long sharp note. A few minutes later, two more fair-haired boys materialised a few metres from them. Akela frowned; how had she not seen them coming? Blond hair should stand out against shadows, surely.

“What’s up?” one of them asked.

Henrik jerked his head to Akela. “We have a visitor; apparently she’s our cousin?”

“I am,” Akela said firmly. “My mother Melody is your mother’s older sister.”

“Your Ma is Aunt Melody? Then you’re a travelling Player!” one of the two fair-haired boys said. His blue eyes were alight with curiosity, and sparkled with intelligence.

Akela started to nod, then hesitated. “Well, not anymore. Not really,” she said.

“Not anymore? Why not?” Henrik demanded.

Akela’s temper flared. “Why are you all making me answer all these questions, without even introducing yourselves? You’re as rude as Scanrans!”

Henrik looked at her, incredulous, before jabbing a hand at his hair, and then at his brothers’, then their eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we _are_ Scanran. And unless you’re stupid, you already know my name. I’m Henrik.”

“Although to be fair, Henrik, she doesn’t know either of ours,” remarked the boy who’d asked about her Ma. “I’m Ulrik, and this is Frederik,” he said, gesturing to the third boy, who had yet to speak. “What’s your name?”

She extended her hand. “Akela Ethansra,” she said. “And–” she couldn’t help but flush with embarrassment –“I _am_ sorry about saying that you were rude as Scanrans. Truce?”

“Truce,” Ulrik agreed; Henrik looked mutinous, but didn’t say anything, and Frederik glanced at her from behind long lashes.

She swallowed the lump that wanted to rise in her throat down. “And the reason why I’m not a travelling Player anymore is because I’ve chosen not to be.” _Don’t mention killing the man to your cousins just yet,_ Melody had told her. _Not till I’ve had a chance to talk to Harmony. Even then, play it by ear._ “So I’ll be staying here.”

Ulrik’s eyes narrowed at that a bit, but he nodded. “I see.”

A silence grew, and very quickly passed into awkwardness.

“So…what do you all do around here for fun?” she asked.

The three brothers glanced at each other, with knife sharp grins appearing on their faces.

“You know, Akela,” Frederik said cheerfully, snagging her arm, “it’d be easier to just _show_ you.”

* * *

“Do we _ever_ get to do anything fun at the Palace?” Francis asked Maximilian. After about the fourth day, the blond had worked up enough confidence to ask closed questions, whilst among their closed little group.

Maximilian snorted. “Oh, Nond, you’re hilarious.” With a shake of his head to indicate just how ludicrous the suggestion had been. Sometimes, Alex wondered if Max didn’t tear down Francis’ confidence as quickly as it was built.

Elias, ever playing peacemaker, intervened. “Depends on your definition of ‘fun’, Francis. Have you found anything fun so far at the Palace?”

“Horse-riding.”

“In that case, more of the same,” Selwyn said cheerily.

Alex stared at the bowl of stew in front of him. He should eat it. He knew he should eat it. It was lunch, and he wouldn’t eat for a good nine hours, if that – pages ate supper _after_ they waited on nobles and before classwork, and he hadn’t made it that far this past week, between Master Hans and the punishment work the Masters were collectively heaping on him. He needed to eat.

So why did it seem like a tempting idea to fall asleep into it instead?

As they’d agreed on the way down to the pages’ mess, Gary caught the droop of his head and kicked him in the ankle under the table.

“Argh!” for the fifth time in the past half-hour, Alex straightened up, glaring at Gary. “I’m beginning to regret asking you that favour,” he grumbled. “My ankle’s going to be black and blue by lights out.”

“Tough,” Gary said, with more annoying cheeriness. “I’m not letting you fall asleep on the day you’re supposed to be waiting on my father. Not when you seem to have a knack for attracting punishment work.”

Not for the first time that day, Alex found himself sincerely wanting to kill his sponsor.

“I hate you, and shall do so for the rest of my days,” he growled into the bowl of stew, which was no closer to being eaten than it had been two minutes earlier.

Gary jabbed him in the ribs, then jabbed a finger at the stew. “You eat, now. Otherwise, we’ll be in a race to see whether you kill me first, or I kill you first.”

“Bet on me, chaps,” Alex quipped, reaching for the salt. “I feel like a bear with a sore head.”

“You’re acting like one,” Gary informed him, passing him the salt with his longer reach. “And if it continues much longer, I’m going to claim self-defence.”

The acerbic humour was relaxing, Alex found. And he was getting precious little of that, as far as his days at the Palace went. He’d entirely forgotten about his homework from reading and writing, and thus had accumulated more punishment work, and more reading exercises in Common Eastern, which he was currently wading through. Master Hans had found yet more reasons to be displeased with him – surprise, surprise. The sheer amount of exertion the pages were expected to go through had his muscles sore and crying out, with almost every moment – and yesterday, Ralon had caught him by surprise, from behind while he was feeding Jaiyana, pinned him and got in a several solid, bruising blows before Alex could throw him off. When he got up that morning, he had tears in his eyes through the morning prayer, and it wasn’t from a sudden, overwhelming divine encounter.

He reluctantly began to eat his stew, mechanically. One spoonful, then another; he’d only gotten three-quarters through the bowl when the bell signalling the end of the noon meal rang.

Gary and Raoul, seated on either side of him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt collar, and hauled him to his feet. Alex cast longing looks back at the stew, as their group headed for the doors.

“C’mon, Tirragen,” Selwyn said ahead of them, with a little sigh, the first break in his normally unflagging cheer that Alex had seen all week. “Fighting classes.”

Alex wanted to yell, break things and cry all at once. Instead, he just let a groan escape, as they rounded the corner and ran down the corridors, each page to his rooms. Aramis was waiting, with his practise gear, and Alex felt tears sting his eyes as Aramis assisted him into the clothing.

“When you get back here tonight, I’m making you sit down with that bruise balm Lady Leila sent,” Aramis said firmly.

“Or what?” Alex retorted, buttoning his jerkin.

“Or I get Porthos and Athos to hold you down, and I apply it myself,” Aramis said. His tone brooked no argument, and Alex nodded. He couldn’t go many more days with in this level of physical pain and exhaustion.

Fighting classes didn’t help, either. He found himself thinking prayers of thanks to Mithros for the hours of stretching, because otherwise he would have certainly pulled a muscle by now. Tumbling proceeded as usual, and in hand-to-hand, he ended up biting his lip to keep his composure: the Shang Butterfly had paired him with _Raoul,_ and the older boy hit like his fists were a hammer and Alex his anvil.

By the time he led Jaiyana out of her stall, he was dubious if he’d even have the strength to mount up. His legs felt like jelly from practising the Shang kicks, the bruise on his right hip was throbbing, and he ached all over. Thankfully, he managed to get his foot into the stirrup, and he swung up onto Jaiyana’s jet black back. For once, he was grateful for the fact that northerners and westerners rode like sacks of potatoes, who could barely ride without tack. It allowed him to slouch, ever so slightly, into the saddle, and he really wasn’t sure if he could have managed without it today.

“Walk on, ladies,” Master Ulf instructed, once all had been mounted.

Jaiyana responded perfectly to his commands, and he was thankful that pages rode geldings, waiting to purchase stallion destriers until they were squires and through their growth spurt. Otherwise, things would have been…interesting, in riding class; idly, he contemplated if he could blame any pursuit of Jaiyana on Master Ulf’s instructions always being addressed to the ladies.

 _If this is how I think after a week, page training is going to turn my brain to mush_ , Alex thought wryly.

He went through the commands to walk, trot and canter on automatic; learning to ride in formation with other pages, staying in his own little line, provided a flicker of something interesting to think about. Six lines spread across one reasonably large arena was still a difficult consideration with forty or so pages. And they had a long way to go before they rode in formation like he had with the squad, when riding the fief.

An hour later, the time came to dismount, and Alex stared at the ground with consternation. Jaiyana whickered, clearly believing her rider to be wool-gathering.

“Sorry, girl,” he said to her, his voice soft and rueful. “Just give me a minute.”

“You’ve taken longer than that already, Lady Tirragen,” said Master Ulf briskly, approaching them.

 _Oh, brilliant, _Alex couldn’t help but think. It might have only been a week, but being singled out by the Masters _never_ went well.

Master Ulf glanced at him from where he stood beside him. From Jaiyana’s back, Alex’s eyes were dead level with his. “Are you ill, boy?” he frowned.

“No, Master,” he said, sliding his feet out of the stirrups. He dismounted, and his knees buckled under him. Quick as a striking cobra, Master Ulf looped his arms under Alex’s armpits, hauling him to his feet until they were firmly planted.

“Sorry, sir,” Alex mumbled, staring at the ground, feeling his face warm.

“Oh, relax,” said the horse master, waving a hand. “I can’t have you boys fainting in the yard with horses still here. Noble mothers tend to get pissy when their sons get stepped on. I make a habit of not receiving irate complaints, if I can avoid it.”

Well. That did a lot to lessen his feeling of embarrassment – almost as much as the sight of Francis being helped down from his horse by one of Master Ulf’s assistants. The same for some of the other, smaller boys, ones who looked so exhausted that they’d either topple out of or fall asleep in their saddles.

Master Ulf handed Alex his reins with an exasperated expression. “No more daydreaming of bed, Tirragen,” he said. “Go rub your horse down.”

Jaiyana punctuated that statement with a neigh, and Alex smiled wryly.

“As my lady commands,” he told her with a sigh, and they headed into the stables. This time, he made sure his timing on leaving the stables coincided with Selwyn’s; no sense in leaving himself vulnerable. The older boy had berated him for being careless, and Alex was forced to agree that it had been stupid, when he knew that Ralon had a grudge against him.

Back up to his rooms, to scrub himself quickly, and change from practise clothes into the red and gold court uniform. He frowned at his hair for a moment. It was so different to the thick, straight hair possessed by so many of the northerners, with its thick, riotous curls that stood up on themselves.

 _Too late to worry about that now._  

And with that, he was out the door, down to the kitchens where the pages assembled every night.

Rapidly, Master Hans went through the evening’s assignments; Raoul, poor lad, was still waiting on the Lord of Tirrsmont, although Francis didn’t seem to mind waiting on the lord of Hannalof. As Master Hans turned to him, Alex spoke.

“His Grace of Naxen requested that I wait upon him tonight, when I came to the Palace.”

Bushy white brows were drawn into a thunderous frown, which very much resembled a large snowy caterpillar. Then the caterpillar unknitted itself, as Master Hans said coldly, “Very well, Tirragen.”

‘Tirragen’, not ‘boy.’ An interesting little progression they had there.

“His Grace sits next to the King and Queen, at their right hand,” Master Hans continued. “Try not to disgrace yourself – I know it’s hard to break your streak now, but do your best.”

Alex breathed deeply. _Now, now, Alex_ , he said to himself. _It’s most rude to bash your etiquette master’s head into the wall. Also, he’s twice your size. Could make that difficult._

It was still a pleasant image, but it would have to wait a few years. He took his bowl of rosewater, draped the towel over his arm, and followed the other boys out, walking steadily to the head of the table where he stopped and stooped in a bow.

“If your grace pleases?” he asked.

Duke Gareth did please, and he dried his hands.

“Good evening, Tirragen,” he said, and Alex was stunned at how pleasant it felt to be greeted with common courtesy.

“G-good evening, your grace,” he replied, with a bow. It felt _strange_ being greeted nicely. Odd. Like being treated harshly had become what he expected, almost.

The other boys were hurrying back to the kitchen, to fetch the dishes, and he joined them, walking slightly faster. After all, he had longer to walk, and Duke Gareth was _extremely_ high-ranking. It wouldn’t do for him to be tardy.

By the time he had made it through to the dessert course, Alex felt like shouting with glee, at the fact that he could, in fact, perform this basic page duty.

_See? See? Look! I can do this!_

At the end of the dessert course, Duke Gareth paused in his conversation to the queen, and held up an imperious hand.

“Bide a moment there, Tirragen.”

Alex froze. Was he now to be reprimanded, for some misstep that he hadn’t noticed?

“Your Grace?” he managed to get out around the lump of fear in his throat.

“Sir Myles has requested that you be the one to wait on him, in the future,” Duke Gareth said. “You commence attending him at supper tomorrow. I’ve already spoken to Master Hans.”

Alex bowed, hiding his surprise and his wonder in the movement. “Your grace,” he said, blessing the politeness of etiquette that allowed him to hide his flurry of confused thoughts. _But I’ve hardly distinguished myself in his class at all! Why on earth does he want me to wait on him? Is it because my skin stands out the most?_

Even though that last thought grated, he couldn’t help but appreciate the relief singing through him. No longer would he have to wait on the Knot of Doom and Bigotry; instead, he could wait upon the amiable, if perpetually drunk, Sir Myles.

He promised himself that he would say an extra prayer and light a stick of incense for the Goddess for her kindness to him, and took the dessert plate back to the kitchen.

As they filed back into the kitchen, Raoul clapped him on the back, as discreetly as was possible for someone of Raoul’s strength to do anything.

“You made it through,” he whispered to Alex.

“Hush,” Alex hissed back. “Do you want to tempt fate?”

But fate was not to be tempted, and Alex plodded up to the supper hall with the other boys, feeling Selwyn’s hand on his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but smile. It had taken a while, but he’d made it through a _full day_ of page training.

It looked like things were looking up, a little bit.

Then he cursed as he remembered the classwork and the hour of practise with his saz that still needed to be finished from the day. Selwyn grinned at him wryly, easily guessing his thoughts.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same, as the pea said to the princess,” Selwyn said, with a wink.

“We don’t _have_ a princess,” Alex growled, in a magnificently foul mood.

“Go get your lute, and we can do the classwork in my rooms tonight,” Selwyn laughed.

“How can you _laugh_ when it’s like this?” Alex asked, incredulous.

“Because if I don’t, I’ll cry,” Selwyn said, cracking his neck to the right, then the left. “Now hurry.”

Alex obeyed and hurried to his room, contemplating Selwyn’s words. Laugh, because otherwise you’d cry. Joke, because otherwise, you’d rage.

_Selwyn’s made it through the first year. He knows what he’s talking about, surely._

Resolving to try and follow that advice, Alex grabbed hold of his saz by the instrument’s neck, and gathered up his parchment and quills. Aramis eyed him sternly.

“Don’t forget–”

“I know, I know,” said Alex, as he went back to the door. “Bruise-balm. Got it.”

Aramis smiled, and turned back to the letter he was writing to Captain Sanya. 

* * *

“My lady,” Captain Sanya of the Tirragen Guardsmen stood from his desk, startled by his unexpected visitor. He bowed. “Please, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lady Leila of Tirragen stood in the doorway of his rooms. She was dressed in tunic and leggings, meaning that she’d just come from sparring with Miranda.

“Captain Sanya,” she smiled at him warmly. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony. As you can see, I’m not particularly dressed for it,” with an airy gesture to her attire.

“As my lady wishes,” he said, trying to stifle a smile. “How may I assist you tonight?”

“As incorrigible with etiquette as ever,” she sighed, as she entered. “Tell me, what news from Aramis?”

His eyebrows shot up, both in surprise at the question and at the sound of the door clicking shut behind her. “How did you kn–”

“I trusted you to protect Alex when you were out riding the fief for five years,” Leila said, tartly. “This meant, realistically, that you would have my son for six months of the year, and I would have him for the other six of the year. It is very difficult to take care of a child for that long without developing some form of parental attachment to them. Thus, when Alex decided to go train as a page, you sent the three Guardsmen you have known for a very long time, instead of some of the newer recruits who would have jumped to go to the Palace. You also sent three Guardsmen whom you knew had bonded intensely with Alex, almost as intensely as you. You would not have sent Aramis, Porthos and Athos if they had not agreed to write you with news, and given that Aramis once had desire to train as a priest, I can only suspect that the first letter came from him. Hence my question.”

Captain Sanya shook his head. “My lady’s reasoning is as impeccable as ever,” he said with a sigh, as she moved the sole armchair which he kept by the fire. “Yes, I’m halfway through Aramis’ letter. But the news – my lady, you may find it distressing.”

“Not half as distressing as I find ignorance and silence from my son,” she replied. He nodded once, heavily, as he handed her the letter. He stood beside the armchair in silence, waiting stolidly.

She read through it quickly, her eyes steadily widening, and then she stopped. She looked at him, her eyes bright. “I thought I knew exactly how bad it could get,” she said, a slight quaver in her voice. “I was wrong. It’s worse.”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

She breathed deeply, one, two, three. The way Jasper had taught Duncan to do, when discovering the boy’s anger problems. Then she returned to the letter.

“Well. It appears that Alex may have a slight reprieve for himself coming,” she said with a forced laugh at the end. “Apparently this Sir Myles is usually not hostile to him, unlike the others that he has been waiting on.”

“That’s progress,” Sanya said.

“Yes, it is,” Leila said. “Please, in the future, when Aramis writes to you, would you send for me?”

He bowed. “Of course, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she said, placing a her hand over his, light brown against black. He blinked. Lady Leila had not been particularly disposed to display affection with anyone except her family. Ever.

“Now, Captain, I have a sudden and completely unexpected desire to learn how to fence,” she said crisply, rising. “Would you be able to meet me in the courtyard in ten minutes?”

He had intended to write Aramis back, but from Leila’s narrowed eyes and pursed lips, this desire to learn how to fence was truly of an urgent nature.

“Of course, my lady,” he said.

She smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I’ll see you down there,” she said, before exiting the room.

Sanya looked at the door for a while. It was definitely shut.

So why did he feel like a door had just opened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isä: Finnish for 'Dad' or 'Daddy.' 
> 
> In case you're wondering, Henrik, Ulrik and Frederik are identical triplets. Yes, it's confusing when they're all blond and blue-eyed.
> 
> Will page training get better? Well, it's starting to. Hee. Torturing – I mean, training – characters is so much fun!
> 
> Also: Alex has a fro and nothing will dissuade me otherwise.


	5. Sir Myles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Myles drinks so much, and what exactly that might look like when "Myles and Alex are always arguing about right and wrong."

The first night Alex waited on Sir Myles, he was still trying to figure out why the old knight had requested him.

Sir Myles smiled at him and washed his hands in the rosewater bowl.

“Good evening, Alex,” he murmured to the page.

“Sir Myles,” Alex returned, repressing the urge to smile back. The old knight passed him his already empty goblet of wine, and Alex tucked it into the crook of his arm.

“Get me a refill, will you? There’s a good lad,” Sir Myles said softly. Alex blinked, debating whether to challenge him on it, and then gave up on the internal debate: pages were to obey the nobles they waited on absolutely. And besides, why should he care, if Sir Myles wanted to drink himself silly? He was an adult, surely he could make that decision.

Sir Myles was seated next to a high-ranking stiff lady. She had, Alex learned later, a few years ago been a debutante from the convent, but had yet to marry – and Alex could guess why – and she looked very offended at being seated next to the portly old knight. Or perhaps she was offended by his breath, Alex thought, as he offered Sir Myles the first dish of that evening’s supper.

“Stuffy little thing, isn’t she?” Sir Myles murmured in Alex’s ear, as Alex ducked in between them to serve the food. Alex suppressed a grin; the old knight was quite accurate, but it wouldn’t do to break his mask. Myles drained his wine goblet in one gulp, before dabbing at the dribbles running down his chin. The lady looked horrified and Myles tucked the goblet back into the crook of Alex’s arm. “Another, please.”

 _That’s two in about ten minutes,_ Alex tallied in his head. _And it smelled pretty strong, too._

Waiting on Sir Myles was good exercise, Alex found, as he kept a fast and steady walk between the kitchen and the table. However, it also made for good comedy, as Sir Myles outrageously flattered the young lady next to him. The key word being ‘outrageously’, as the good-looking young lady turned progressively redder, and redder, with each backhanded compliment, until she was about as red as a tomato. By the dessert course and the tenth goblet of wine, she turned to Sir Myles with the most strained smile Alex had ever seen.

“Sir, if you will excuse me, I have some…some urgent needlepoint that I must attend to,” she said, rising and fleeing the banquet hall.

“Tell me if she trips over her skirts, Alex,” Sir Myles said, and Alex choked on his suppressed laugh. Followed by, “Does your laughter mean that she did?”

By the time supper had finished, and Sir Myles had left the table, Alex had tallied his count at fifteen goblets, and he and Raoul were helping him up to his rooms, exchanging weary glances with each other.

* * *

Alex’s patience with this arrangement lasted for a full twenty-one days. On the twenty-first night, his patience ran out.

“Sir Myles, why do you need to _drink_ so much?” he asked the old knight, between deep breaths as he and Raoul helped him in the door.

“Why don’t I need to drink so much?” Sir Myles countered, his hazel eyes amused.

Alex crossed his arms, stubborn. Raoul shook his head frantically, an expression of extreme discomfort on his face, and Alex scowled at both his friend and his teacher.

In the past month, he’d grown to like the old knight. His commentary in history class had seemed painfully obvious at first, but Alex had realized that he had underestimated the amount of history his peers knew. Some of them had been taught almost nothing by their parents. Like the Mithran priests, he was one of the few people in the castle who didn’t seem to care about Alex’s heritage. _Unlike_ the Mithran priests, Myles also had a personality, and a sense of humour which he unleashed on the courtiers every night at the supper table, whispering scathing commentary on the new fashions for courtiers, the manoeuvring of matchmaking mothers, and all the hazards Alex was discovering in the Palace.

“Mama always said that the only time men drink like river horses is when they’re desperate. Why are you desperate?”

“I’m not desperate,” Sir Myles said calmly. Alex blinked. _Why is he calm? Don’t people get mad when they’re drunk? I’m mad at him, and I’m not drunk!_

“Then why are you drinking so much, Sir Myles?” he persisted.

Sir Myles cocked his head to one side. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’m worried,” Alex retorted, giving up on any sort of diplomacy. He was far too exhausted and fed up to try for tact. “You’re the best teacher I have in this place. Master Hans hates me, the Mithran priests are soulless, and our Philosophy teacher makes me sleepy.”

“I’m sure the priests aren’t _soulless_ ,” Sir Myles protested, with a smile quirking one corner of his mouth, his eyes glittering with amusement. He flipped Raoul a sweet from the silver bowl on his dresser. “Page Raoul, consider yourself excused. I believe Alexander has a few things he needs to get off his chest.”

Raoul, who had been hovering near the door with an expression of pain and constipation, caught the sweet and beat a hasty retreat.

“Fine, ‘soulless’ was an exag-exagge-” Alex stumbled over the unfamiliar word. He’d seen it in books, but Tortallan was _much_ harder than Hurdik to pronounce.

“Exaggeration,” Sir Myles said, the smile widening just a touch. “The word is ‘exaggeration.’ You know what it means?”

“Like when people say Lake Tirragen is the size of an ocean, but they _mean_ that it’s really, really big,” Alex nodded.

“Well-put,” Sir Myles agreed.

“The priests aren’t really soulless.”

“You are unusually difficult to distract,” Sir Myles said with a frown.

Alex preened a little at the compliment, and then flushed, remembering _he was supposed to be mad_.

“The priests aren’t really soulless, but you’re still the best teacher I have. You’re going to get yourself hurt if you don’t slow down on the drinking,” Alex said, his arms crossed.

“Nonsense,” Sir Myles snorted. “I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Maybe now,” Alex agreed. “But what about later?”

“Alexander, it’s kind of you to fret about me–”

“My name is _Alex_ ,” Alex snapped. “I’m not being kind, I’m _mad_. And this conversation would be much shorter and I would be able to get some of my classwork done if you just _told me_ why you won’t stop drinking!”

Sir Myles sighed, looking at him with sad eyes. “Alex, lad, I drink because it’s easier than seeing yet another crop of boys arrive with dreams of glory and honour, and seeing them be punished for things they didn’t do wrong, and then go to the Chamber.”

“You’re a _knight_ ,” Alex pointed out, fuming. “’Easy’ is not in your job description.”

“Well, there you have it,” Sir Myles said. “I’m lazy, so I prefer ‘easy’ to ‘difficult.’”

“I can’t believe that. If you preferred easy to hard and were really that lazy, you never would have decided to teach pages history,” Alex retorted.

“Your compatriots can be quite obtuse on the subject of history, can’t they?” Sir Myles sighed. “When I was a boy, I saw most of the aftermath of this nation’s history. The conquests of King Jasson, in particular, I saw a great deal of. I drink to forget, and I drink to not think about what one king’s pride and ambition cost my country.”

Alex crossed his arms. “Why do you say ‘my country’ as if it’s not mine too?”

There was a flicker of surprise in hazel eyes.

“Do you consider Tortall to be your country? Despite the fact that you are in the west, with which your people – the hillmen of the East, I mean – have been at war since the Human Era began?” Myles cocked his head to one side, considering Alex.

Alex clenched his fists, and then forced them to relax. “What King Jasson has done, has been done, and it’s plain to a child none can reverse it,” he said, calmly. “If it could be done, someone would have tried, and I wouldn’t _be_ here.”

“Indeed,” Sir Myles nodded, grave. “What’s done has been done. One of the reasons why I drink.”

Alex cursed in Hurdik under his breath. Riding the fief with a squad of soldiers had wrought unholy havoc on his vocabulary.

When he recovered his temper, he switched back to Tortallan. “Sir Myles, that’s _also_ a reason to try harder to make something new, and good out of this mess. Just because–” he groped for words, and found them. “Just because Jasson spilled the milk and died, doesn’t mean the mess can’t be cleaned up. It’ll just take a bit of work. And the milk needs cleaning up.”

At that, Sir Myles’ eyes sparkled. “Page Alexander, you make a good argument. Two sweets for you,” he flipped Alex a couple of sweets from the bowl, and Alex caught them deftly.

“Sir, it’s _Alex_ ,” Alex protested. No-one called him Alexander. Not anymore. 

“Of course,” Sir Myles noted. “My apologies. Now, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

Alex glanced at the candle-marks, and groaned. Supper for the pages would be over. There was still a lot of work to do, and regretfully, he thought of his bed.

“Alex?” Sir Myles’ quiet voice halted him at the door.

He paused. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He nodded at Myles. “You’re welcome, sir,” he said, before running down the corridor. There were reading, writing and etiquette problems to finish.

* * *

Three months later, Alex was summoned to Duke Gareth’s office.

“Tirragen,” the Duke greeted. Alex bowed.

“Your Grace.”

The Duke smiled thinly. “Your skill in the fighting and thinking arts does you credit, and your family honour.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. It was not the longest speech, but from Duke Gareth, who handed out praise once in a blue moon, it was a volume.

“T-thank you, your Grace.”

“Don’t interrupt, Tirragen,” the Duke chided.

Ah, the familiar chiding. That felt easier to understand. “It does your family honour, although Master Hans complains of you incessantly.” At that, the Duke’s thin smile widened a touch. “Given this, I feel that you have earned the right to attend this week’s Market Day in the city.”

Alex fought the urge to grin. He barely contained his glee to a wide smile.

“I thank you, your Grace,” he said, with another bow.

“You may take another boy with you, one of the older ones who know Corus,” the Duke said. “Selwyn of Pearlmouth is your sponsor, I believe?”

“Yes, he is,” Alex replied.

“Well, then, he can accompany you,” Duke Gareth nodded. “That’s settled.”

The Market Day rolled around on Saturday, and Alex cheerfully left the Palace enclosure with Selwyn. Coin-purse in the inside pocket of his jerkin, they headed down Palace Way, the broad road that ran from the gates of the Palace enclosure to the gates of the city, until they reached the Daymarket. The air was freezing cold, and Alex frowned from under the cloak he wore.

“When will the snow fall?” he asked Selwyn. Selwyn shrugged.

“Probably till not after Midwinter. It’s been late the past couple of years,” he replied. Alex scowled. “It can get cold enough to snow, but not snow? That’s just not fair,” he replied.

“I’ll be sure to take it up with the Wave Walker when I next chat to her,” Selwyn replied dryly. “I’m sure she’ll be dropping by for tea soon.”

They continued like that, both of them working their way through their Midwinter shopping, bantering and trying to keep their faces straight. Alex whooped with delight as indescribably tiny wet white _things_ started falling.

“ _Hah!_ Take that, Selwyn!” he pumped a fist. “I was right! It’s a white Midwinter!”

“First-years,” Selwyn shook his head with mock-disappointment. “They get one call about the weather right, and they think they know everything.”

“You bet I do. Wait, are these just the small snowflakes? Don’t they fall any bigger than this?” asked Alex with a frown.

“No, young pupil,” sighed Selwyn. “All snowflakes are just that tiny.”

“But they looked so much bigger in the books!” Alex protested.

By the time they’d made all their purchases, Market Day was over, the ground was covered in at least three inches of snow, and Alex was more relaxed than he had been in months. He turned to Selwyn with a smile, feeling a lump rise in his throat.

“Hey,” he said. Selwyn looked at him, raising one brow.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For volunteering to be my sponsor,” Alex said. His fingers twitched beneath his cloak; dammit, showing what he felt was _nerve-wracking_ , and this was after only three months in Corus.

“Oh, that. You’re welcome,” Selwyn said cheerfully. He clapped an arm around Alex’s shoulder, and Alex felt a wet sensation slide down his shirt. “Snowball sneak!”

Alex hurled Barzunni and Hurdik oaths after Selwyn’s retreating back as he stooped to gather a snowball of his own.

Later that night, after he helped Sir Myles up to his rooms, he dug a parcel out of his shirt, ignoring Myles’ very bemused look.

“There it is,” Alex said. “It’s for you,” he said, offering it to his teacher. “Happy Midwinter, Sir.”

Hazel eyes widened, and the jaw muscles of his favourite drunk/teacher slackened into a gape. “You got me a _gift_? Alex, you shouldn’t have!”

Alex frowned. “I wanted to, Sir. Don’t open it till the morning after Longnight, but…I think you’re going to enjoy it.”

Sir Myles sketched a grave bow, and then wobbled precariously. Alex darted forward to support him, and two splotched hands with a surprisingly firm grip landed on Alex’s shoulders.

“You have my word that I will not open it until after Longnight,” Sir Myles said.

Alex nodded satisfaction, as he helped the knight stand again. “Will you be alright, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” Sir Myles waved an airy hand. “I just made the foolish mistake of trying to bow while drunk. Silly me, I haven’t done that for _years_ – with good reason!”

Alex waited until he was at the door to chirrup, “By the way, I’ve thought of another reason for you to stop drinking so much – your evening breath is _terrible!_ ” He caught the sweets thrown at him, grinned at the “be off, you impudent wretch! Leave me in peace!” and left, his heart warmed by the unspoken, _thank you, Alex._

* * *

March, and there was a new boy in the pages’ wing, starting early for the next year. Geoffrey of Wellam, a nervous-looking boy who kept wringing his hands. Alex felt a flash of pity for the boy; he’d probably find it hard to survive in the rough-and-tumble of the pages’ wing. Wellam was bigger than Alex himself, but his nervous demeanour made him seem a lot smaller, and it’d make him weaker in a fight. Size had very little to do with it; in the past six months, Alex had discovered that he was currently one of the smallest and best fighters among the first years. Size be damned.

As they trooped into Sir Myles class, Alex began counting in his head. At 123 seconds, Sir Myles trotted into the class.

“Ah, my pupils! We have a new victim,” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling. Alex had noted that these days, there was a spring in the old knight’s step as he walked into class.

Geoffrey of Wellam looked exceptionally nervous. “V-victim?”

Oh, boy. This would be interesting.

“Victim,” Sir Myles confirmed with a grin. “The Code of Chivalry makes victims of us all, and you’re here to train to be a knight. Who is bound by the Code.”

“Sir Myles,” Alex said, exasperated. Geoffrey of Wellam, already pale, was white as a sheet.

“Ah, yes.” Sir Myles turned to him and sketched a bow. “Alex, I see that you wish to submit your view on the Code?”

“Yes,” Alex said, standing up, his temper at a simmer. “I do. May I have a word with you after class?”

Sir Myles inclined his head regally. “You may. In the meantime, we shall continue with our coverage of the Mages’ Revolt.”

Later on, after all the other pages had filed out, there were three people left in the classroom.

“Selwyn,” Alex said, with strained patience. “You really don’t need to be here for this.”

“Yes, I do,” his sponsor countered. “You’re my sponsored, and that means it’s my responsibility to keep you from saying anything too stupid.”

“Relax, Selwyn,” Sir Myles said, with a smile. “This is a debate. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing on the record. Alex, do you wish to go first?

"Oh, no," Alex said, not bothering to try and return the smile. "I insist that you go first, because I want to know  _exactly_ what your major problem with the Code of Chivalry is."

“Ah, splendid! An opportunity to expand,” Myles said. “Where to begin? I know. Let’s start with the ridiculousness that you’re expected to make up your minds about what you’re supposed to do with your lives at the age of _ten_.”

Alex shrugged. “Everybody has to come to that decision sooner or later. Besides, the Code says nothing about when knight training is supposed to begin.”

“How about the rule that nobles are expected to endure insult publically and never ask for help?” Myles retorted.

“Again, not in the _Code_ ,” Alex replied. He was dead certain of that. Aramis had pinned a copy of the Code to his wall, and reading it every night before he fell into bed was 90% of what had sustained Alex through the past six months of training. By now, Alex had memorised it.

“Nobles being bound by their honour and their word, and therefore bound to protect their reputation, whatever the cost?” Myles said, his eyes narrowing.

Alex cheered internally. Finally, they were getting somewhere!

“That part, you need. Nobles need to be bound by _something_ ,” Alex said. “And there’s more to honour than just reputation. Honour is the way you can be counted on to behave. That’s part of the reason nobles react so poorly to slander; because nobles _don’t_ stand alone, and if someone’s dragging your name through the mud, it can be a _threat_.”

“The entire Code is _unrealistic_ ,” Myles pointed out, his brows knitted into a frown; equivalent to a loss of temper for the genial man. “It demands an _enormous_ amount from everybody who falls under it, and then sets it as the _minimum_ standard _._ ”

“And that’s the _point!”_ Alex lost his temper. “Yes, the Code demands a lot. Yes, it’s demanding. Yes, it’s stern. Yes, it’s strict. _That’s the point._ Sir Myles, this world is a screwed-up place. Do you want to know why a Bazhir is my mother? Because by Bazhir law, a woman is not raped unless there are male witnesses. So when my mother was _raped_ , she was cast out of the tribe, with no water skin, left for dead – for _adultery_. This world is a messed-up place! And somehow, the gods decide that we _must_ live as honourable, law-abiding, upstanding people. That’s why the Code matters, Sir Myles.” His chest heaved, as he breathed. “If you’re going to try and achieve that, living as a good man – you may as well aim ridiculously high. After all, why _not?_ ”

Sir Myles looked rather shocked at the mention of the Bazhir laws, and then considering.

After a while, he smiled. The smile was rueful, gentle, and considering.

“Alex, you make some excellent points. Think fast,” his hand dove into his jerkin, and took out two hard candies. Alex caught them deftly, and gave one to Selwyn. “I’m surprised you don’t like Philosophy more,” Sir Myles said. “After all, you’d be quite good at it yourself. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to your teacher. He won’t give you punishment work for being late.”

“Thanks. And I’d be a terrible philosopher, sir. I just want to be a knight,” he said. “I’d go crazy cooped up in the Palace all my life.”

With that, he and Selwyn ran to Philosophy.

* * *

Sir Myles looked out the door of his classroom, with a sigh, considering the debate that had just unfolded.

The boy was correct. So many of the things he objected to about Tortallan society _weren’t_ found in the Code at all. They were found in the rules that polite society operated by. But not in the Code.

And the ferocity in Alex's tone as he defended the Code – not saying that it didn’t demand too much, but that it did and that was the _point_ – well, that was new. Very new, in fact. As was the boy’s odd blend of idealism and cynicism, cunning and honour, woven together, with so many paradoxes that the boy didn’t seem to notice.

Sir Myles smiled. Alexander insists-on-being-called-Alex (and there had to be a story behind that) of Tirragen was a good lad. He gave an old drunk hope. And he also alerted him to gaps in his knowledge. What other things did he not know about Bazhir law? And Hill Country had always been written off as populated by barbarians, not worth researching. Except for Jasson, of course.

On that thought, he ambled out of the classroom. The afternoon awaited.


	6. Hill Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex returns to Hill Country, with an emotional reunion.

**Chapter Six:** **Hill Country**

 March rolled into April, April rolled into May, and the Court prepared to leave for the Summer Palace in Port Caynn. Many of the pages would be staying put, continuing with a reduced curriculum. Some would be leaving to go to the Summer Palace with their parents.

Alex had already spoken to Duke Gareth and written to announce that he would be coming home. He had been counting down the days towards the summer, when the pages would be officially free to go.

On the first day of June, Alex rolled out of bed, and went through the morning prayer at the most rapid pace he could. He dressed in the one outfit of Tirragen colours he had brought: purple tunic, black shirt and black breeches. It was maybe silly, but he wanted every reminder of the fact that he was _going home_ today.

He packed the night before, ready to ride as soon as may be. He swung his bag onto his shoulder, and Porthos and Athos were already at the stables, with their horses and the two longsuffering pack-horses saddled. He hurried into Jaiyana’s stall, and she whickered, sensing his excitement.

“Good morning, lovely,” he whispered to her, as he gave her a quick curry, and then tacked her up. In ten minutes, she was ready to go, his bedroll attached to the back of her saddle.

In another ten, they were on the road, and Alex felt his heart soar as they trotted down Palace Way. The Tirragen party was on their way back to Hill Country.

* * *

 As the crow flies, it was about two weeks’ riding between Corus and Tirragen, but ten days between Corus and Whitethorn, where they would rendezvous with Sanya and Connor’s squad.

Camping out in the forests and hills, building up the fire every night and falling to sleep with Athos, Porthos and Aramis all refining their plans for when they reached home. Porthos wanted to see the other Guardsmen and catch up on the fief news. (Gossip, really, but Alex knew better than to say so aloud.) Meanwhile Aramis wanted to make a stop at a bookshop during the stop in Whitethorn, with Alex’s permission.

Ten days of riding along the Olorun. Ten days of tracking and hunting with Athos, while Aramis and Porthos made camp. Ten days surrounded by the forests, and walking near-bowlegged from being in the saddle all day. Ten days of surveying the world from Jaiyana’s back.

It felt like the longest ten days of Alex’s life. Thoughts consumed with anticipation of hearing Duncan’s laugh. Seeing the sunrise over Lake Tirragen. Seeing Mama again. Lessons with Captain Sanya. Watching Miranda and Jason tease each other. The rhythm of rising at dawn, praying, and then falling back into bed for the next few hours. And he’d be home for a whole _six weeks_.

On the evening of the tenth day, they made it to Whitethorn, the principal city of Fief Eldorne. The only true city in Hill Country, really. Most people preferred to keep to their tribes and villages, but enough people wanted to leave that Whitethorn had a thriving population of Tirragen, Malven, Eldorne and Sinthyans alike, who, in turn, played host when it came time to negotiate the trade deals. It sat above the great Olorun delta. The delta was cradled in a bowl-like valley; the Olorun split into a few more tributaries, the largest of which flowed on to Lake Tirragen. A bridge had been built over the delta, sloping up towards the base of the hill, the bridge splattered with mud from too many hooves over the years. It led into the city ramparts and walls, which stretched around the acres of farmland on which Whitethorn lived, before getting into the city proper. A mile away was Castle Eldorne, seated on the very crest of the hill. They urged their horses up the slope, keeping to a firm and steady amble, the pace that Tirragen horses were bred for.

“Hallo the gate!” Porthos bellowed, as they reached the watchhouse gate. The Watchmen appeared over the ramparts.

“Who goes there?” one bellowed back.

“Alexander of Tirragen, with Guardsmen Porthos, Athos, and Aramis, all of the tribe of Orion,” Porthos roared. “We seek to stay in Whitethorn for a few nights, and meet with another party from Tirragen here. D’you know of anywhere with rooms free for the night?”

“None for free,” yelled back one of the guards, “but there’s rooms at _The Sleepy Cricket_.”

“Our thanks,” Alex yelled up to them.

“ _The Sleepy Cricket_?” Porthos rumbled, at a normal volume, beside him. “What kind of a name for an inn is that?”

“Porthos, so long as they have clean sheets, a decent table, ale and pretty maids, why do you _care_?” Aramis inquired, with a sharp-edged smile.

He and Porthos tended to get on each other’s nerves when left in each other’s company for long stretches at a time and no breaks. Alex made a mental note to send him on his errand to the bookshop the next day, with firm instructions to not come back to the inn before dusk. Assuming Porthos didn’t fall in love with anybody, that left Alex himself and Athos the task of finding some form of entertainment for the boisterous giant.

Mind you, the assumption that Porthos would fall in love with somebody was a fairly safe one; said boisterous giant was prone to falling in love at the drop of a shoe, and falling out of love again with the drop of the second shoe. In the past year at the Palace, there had been no fewer than nine women with whom he had become infatuated.

They urged their horses through the gate, and Alex gave an urchin his age a couple of copper bits in exchange for directions to the _Sleepy Cricket_. It wasn’t far; Whitethorn was not a truly large city, certainly no Corus to have multiple districts. The only reason they needed directions to an inn was because when an official delegation visited, they would stay near or in Castle Eldorne.

They were in luck. _The Sleepy Cricket_ was an unimposing little place, but it had three rooms, and one of them was available for the night. They served a good roast, and the Guardsmen ordered a decent bottle of wine to share between the three of them. There was a piper playing in the corner, wild, dramatic tunes that rose and fell, soared and swooped. It was Hill Country translated into music, Alex realized, feeling giddy and more than a bit homesick at the thought. The peaks and the valleys, the hillocks and cliffs.

Funny, he thought, feeling tears pinprick his eyes. He had thought that the homesickness would lessen the closer he got to Tirragen, rather than intensifying towards an emotional crescendo.

The next morning, Alex slept soundly until about nine o’clock. Porthos had gone and fallen in love with the innkeeper’s daughter last night at dinner, and would spend the day pursuing his newfound paramour. Aramis had gone in search of the bookshop. That left him and Athos to go searching for the Tirragen party.

“So what’s most likely?” Alex asked Athos, still yawning, as they strolled onto the street.

“One squad, no more,” Athos said. “Too hard to find accommodation otherwise. I’d say also Captain Sanya, at least one of your brothers, and possibly your mother.”

Alex considered this. “When would they have gotten here? And if Mama was there, does that mean they went to the castle?”

“Probably a day or two. Thankfully, there aren’t many people in Hill Country who are Carthaki, and even fewer who _look_ Carthaki. We hillmen tend to be a little lighter,” Athos’ expression was wry. “Which makes our task easier if our suspicions are correct.” He beckoned to a girl who was balancing a basket of laundry on her hip.

“Good morrow, mistress!” he hailed her.

She stopped and looked back at them, steadily, her head cocked to one side.

“Good morrow, sirs,” she replied, clearly feeling cautious.

“A question for you,” Athos said, striding over to her. “Did you, by any chance at all, see a Carthaki Captain come through, with a squad of men-at-arms and a lady who resembled this youngster?” he asked, jerking his thumb at Alex.

She looked at Alex, then looked at the inn across the street, frowning. Then her face cleared. “Why, yes! They went to the castle, up there.”

Athos smiled. “Our thanks, mistress.” Then he beckoned for Alex to follow along as they headed north towards Castle Eldorne.

“I wonder where they found room for the Guardsmen?” Alex mused. Castle Eldorne, he knew from experience, was rather nice, but not terribly roomy.

“Discount for a party of ten at one of the inns, probably,” Athos shrugged. “Three rooms for ten soldiers wouldn’t have been too costly, seeing as they knew they wouldn’t be staying for long. Now where was that bookshop of Aramis’?”

“Sosban Street, I think,” Alex replied. “Why?”

They found another street lad, about Alex’s age, willing to run an errand for some coppers, who knew where the bookshop was, willing to take the message. That led them back to the inn for lunch, where they found Porthos slumped over in the corner.

“What’s wrong, Porthos?” Alex asked, feeling a flash of concerned. Distress was not something he tended to associate with Porthos.

“She hates me,” Porthos pronounced into his lunchtime ale with grim certainty. “I’m sure of it.”

Ah. That explained it. Nothing to worry about, then.

“What’s the new girl’s name?” Athos asked.

“Amaryllis,” Porthos said. “The loveliest name to ever grace the lips of mankind.”

“That is _exactly_ what you said about Jane three weeks ago,” Alex reminded him, with a sigh.

“Jane,” Porthos said, looking very offended, “is nothing to compared to my beautiful Amaryllis.”

 _Can you really call her yours, if you’re sure that she hates you?_ Alex wondered. But he decided it would be wise not to press this particular point. Food. Food would make this situation better. It usually did, with the possible exception of page training. He signalled to the barmaid, and soon enough, they had an excellent lunch of shepherd’s pie served up before them. The cook, Alex mused, was probably delighted by their presence, and their requests for seconds; as was whoever kept the inn’s barrels of alcohol, because Porthos had just swallowed the fifth ale of the morning, the barmaid – not Amaryllis, as she was hiding out the back, this barmaid’s name was Medea – informed them. Alex asked her, with his best endearing smile, if she would please swap them out for twilsey from now on, because he really didn’t think that Porthos would notice. She graciously assented. About an hour after that, Aramis returned with a couple of parcels under his arm, while Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair.

“We found the party,” Alex informed him.

“So I see,” Aramis said, gesturing to a now-snoring Porthos, with better humour than he’d had last night.

“We found my lady and Sanya,” Athos clarified, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, good to hear. Is there lunch? I’m starving.”

Athos signalled the barmaid again, and Alex reflected that it was a very good thing for their purse they’d spent the last ten days camping.

“We can’t let Mama and Sanya see Porthos like this. When’s he likely to wake up?” he asked Aramis.

“Oh, give him an hour,” Aramis said cheerfully. “I think he’s just napping.”

Aramis was proven right, as Porthos woke up, and appeared to have returned to his normal state of jubilation. Athos went with him to supervise the final overtures towards Amaryllis the barmaid, and Alex asked Aramis to show him the new books.

Another hour later, and Porthos returned to the room that the four of them were sharing, looking resigned.

“She threatened to burn my eyes out with her father’s paint thinner,” he said, with a sigh. “I just don’t think it’s going to work out anymore.”

“You really think so?” Alex asked, very carefully not smiling.

Porthos nodded gravely, and Aramis clapped him on the shoulder. “Not to fret, my friend,” Aramis said. “There’ll be other places, with ladies who are more receptive.”

Porthos brightened at this. Something else that was not at all surprising. His personal motto might as well have been, new location, new love.

“Can we go see Mama now?” Alex asked.

“As you wish,” Aramis said.

“Yes!” Alex shouted, shooting to his feet. They locked the room, and quickly went north towards the Castle, snagging one of the Whitethorn kennel messenger runners along the way. The boy was willing enough to do it, as he had just come off his shift, and he ran ahead of them, dodging through the foot traffic; people returning from their work to their homes, or out for an evening stroll. Alex forced himself to keep to the leisurely pace set by the Guardsmen, no matter how much he wanted to simply run ahead all the way to the castle. There was no point sending word to the Captain of Castle Eldorne’s guard that three armed men and a youngster were about to come calling, seeking the Tirragen party, if they came about two seconds behind the messenger.

About ten minutes later, they had climbed the hill, and were at the gates of Castle Eldorne, sweating mildly and heart rates lifted. It had been a great surprise to Alex that, the harder his muscles became and the longer he could run under Duke Gareth’s regime, the more he sweated. He’d asked Aramis about it, who wryly assured him that all junior Guardsmen made the same surprising discovery in their first year of training.

“Hallo the gate!” bellowed Porthos, taking up his role as spokesman. “Athos, Porthos, Aramis and Alexander, seeking Lady Leila and Captain Sanya’s party!”

“Well, why in Chaos weren’t we invited?” asked the guard standing at the left of the gate sardonically, as he leaned on his halberd. “And you needn’t shout, I’m right here.”

“The shouting is _traditional,”_ Porthos replied, with a scowl.

“That’s as may be,” said the guard, with a sigh, “but I take it that you think giving people migraines is clever?”

“Acrimony, just let him in,” said the guard on the right.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Aramis. “Is your name Acrimony?”

The guard winced. “Mother had heard it in a minstrel’s song, and she liked the sound of it,” he mumbled. “She didn’t bother asking anyone what it meant.”

“Can we just _come in_?” Alex exploded. “I’m tired and I _haven’t seen_ _Mother_ for a year!”

“Alright, alright!” said Guardsman Acrimony, looking alarmed. Apparently, children were not in his realm of expertise. “Keep your shirt on, short stuff.”

Porthos drew breath to announce that the boy he was calling ‘short stuff’ was, in point of fact, a noble of the biggest and most powerful fief in Hill Country, until Alex gave him a sharp look. Yes, the insult stung, but more importantly, the guards were _opening the gate_.

“Thank you very much, Guardsmen!” he tossed over his shoulder. The castle was quiet; the only figure in the courtyard was a girl, a couple of years younger than him coming out of the stables, in a green split-skirt dress. He blinked.

“Delia?” he called.

The figure spun around, shading her eyes against the sun behind them. “Alex?” she replied hesitantly, approaching them.

“Good to see you,” he said, bowing correctly. She curtseyed, and then punched him in the arm, her customary signal to drop the formalities. He shoved her back, with a smile.

“Good to see you too,” she said, grinning. “Are you looking for your mother?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Do you know where she’s staying?”

“Second floor up,” Delia said promptly. “She, the Captain and your brother have the rooms at the east end of the corridor on the left side, although your brother and the Captain are sharing.”

“Which brother?” he asked her.

She frowned. “Your middle brother, I think. You know I can never remember his name.”

“Duncan,” Alex sighed. “It’s _Duncan,_ Delia. Not that easy to forget. Remember, after King Jasson’s younger brother? Prince Duncan?”

Delia rolled her eyes. “You know Father doesn’t let me read much history.”

“Which I don’t understand. “Hillwomen are supposed to be _good_ at fighting. It’s hard to do that if you don’t know your history,” Alex grumbled, beckoning to Athos, Porthos and Aramis to follow him and Delia inside. They had courteously stayed back, allowing the two children to converse, and discuss their bets on when the children would become a couple*. But that was something Alex would have to allow, as Sanya had long since told him that speculation, when a boy and a girl were friends, was _often_ wrong, but _never_ avoidable.

“I know,” Delia sighed. “But you know what Father thinks. He’s all for ingratiating ourselves with the West as much as we can. It’s why I’ll be going to the convent next year. Marina will marry and inherit, of course,” she said, referring to her eldest sister. 

Alex smirked at that. “Knock ‘em dead,” he advised her.

“I intend to,” she said with a laugh, as they stopped in the corridor that the Castle opened up into. “Will I see you at dinner?”

“Maybe,” Alex said with a shrug. “Can’t say for sure. Second floor up, you said?”

“Staircases are at the end of the corridor,” she said, pointing to the northern end of the building.

“Thanks, Delia!” With that, he ran up the corridor, the Guardsmen accelerating from a standing start to a jog. Stupid long legs gave them an unfair advantage, Alex considered, as he took the stairs two at a time, before running down the length of the corridor. Why, he wondered, was it so difficult to have staircases on _both ends_ of the corridors? It would make everything _so_ much more efficient.

 _And then you would have people crapping on the ballroom guests, because where else would you put the latrine?_ his sense of architecture pointed out.

 _Shut up,_ Alex told it, firmly. Finally, he reached the second door from the end, and knocked hard.

Well, less knocked and more slammed into the oak, but the principle and result of the thing was the same, he thought, from where he sat on the cool grey flagstones outside the door. _Ow._ The stars were very pretty, though. He’d only seen them before when he and Ralon had gotten into fights, and after that, Alex generally needed some help from Sanya’s Gift. He quickly ran a hand over his face; nothing seemed to be bleeding. So far, so good.

Meanwhile, past the stars, Sanya had appeared at the door.

“Alex!” he said, with a smile. “Good to see you. Are you alright?” he helped Alex get to his feet, and the world spun a bit.

“Ow. Things are spinning,” Alex managed to relay to Sanya. Sanya clucked his tongue, and knelt in front of him. Alex smiled at that; it was very rare for Sanya to offer him piggy-back rides these days, despite the fact that the giant Captain was six and a half feet tall, and more than capable of it.

“Let’s get you to your mother,” Sanya rumbled, as he knocked on the door to the left of his.

“Yes?” came his mother’s voice, and Alex's heart leapt. _Mama!_

The door opened, and Alex raised his head over Sanya’s shoulder. Leila had to crane her neck up, and then her eyes widened as she saw him.

“Your son, my lady,” Sanya said, kneeling to let Alex off.

He stumbled forward. The world started spinning again, but that was alright, because his arms wrapped around Mama’s ribs, and that wasn’t right, she used to be taller, but she was wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug, and he couldn’t breathe but for some reason he could _cry,_ because he could taste the salt water trickling silently down his cheeks.

Somehow, he hadn’t anticipating his homecoming being like this. But that was alright, because Mama’s alto was there, soothing and low, and Sanya’s bass rumble behind him, then Duncan's cheerful tenor exclaiming delight. Then there was a blessed coolness in his head, and the world slowly stopped spinning. The tears continued, though, and Alex regretfully chalked them up to strange, strange emotions, rather than a mild concussion.

But, as Duncan joined in on the group hug, and Sanya too, at Duncan’s chivvying, maybe it was alright for his emotions to be a bit strange. They’d settle down soon enough: the important thing was that he was _back_.

* * *

 

*1 Aramis, Alex would have been delighted to know, was actually betting against that possibility. Athos had bets on them getting married as soon as Delia debuted at court, whereas Porthos had a bet on when Alex was twenty-two and Delia was twenty.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on succession: No, Delia's sister inheriting is not a mistake or a typo on my part. The succession laws of each fief would have to be set up with each conquest, and Eldorne is a matriarchal succession. Succession and status passes through the daughter and the mother's line, and therefore, the first female in line inherits the fief – in this case, the eldest daughter.


	7. Of Summer Swordplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clueless geeks out on swordsmanship detail. Enjoy!

The Tirragen party, now counting almost thirty people, left Whitethorn shortly after dawn the next morning. Alex found that, homecoming or not, he still had a foul temper in the mornings, but at least nobody was expecting him to make conversation. He just rode alongside his mother and Sanya in silence. After they paused for a brief rest at mid-morning, Alex saw the thin, basket-hilted sword hanging at his mother’s hip. He cocked his head to one side, and pointed at it.

“When did this happen?” he asked her, stumbling a bit over the Hurdik. It was harder than he had anticipated to make the switch back from Tortallan to Hurdik.

“The invention of the sword?” Leila deadpanned, a smile on her face.

“No, you learning to wield one,” he replied, finding his confidence again.

“Ah. That, I’ve only been learning since you went away, with Sanya,” Leila admitted. “I was surprised that the sword is considerably lighter than the spear, and that I was, in point of fact, strong enough to wield one. This kind of sword, anyway. I won’t be trying the guardsmen’s pigstickers anytime soon.”

“Why this sudden desire to learn how to fence?” Alex asked.

“I found that with you away, and so much less energy required of me, I needed a new outlet,” Leila said, her smile widening an inch.

Alex narrowed his eyes. There was no red flare of a lie around her lips, but he recognised the way her smile widened. The way it did when she wasn’t lying, per se, but she might have been omitting something.

“Nothing else involved at all?” he said.

Leila sighed, the smile vanishing. “I took it up shortly after Aramis’ first letter arrived back at the castle, and I learned about how much trouble you were having with some of the court nobles,” she said. “I really did need a new outlet.”

Alex relaxed then, satisfied that the puzzle was fully solved. “So are you still sparring with Miranda in spear-work in the evenings?”

“Yes. How about you? How’s your sword-work coming?”

“No swords yet,” Alex said, and Sanya frowned. “Duke Gareth has us still on staffs. Footwork, on a good day.”

Leila winced. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “I know how badly you wanted to learn the sword.”

Sanya’s expression was pensive. “It’s wise to learn footwork and staffs first,” he said. “But I would have thought you were ready to begin.” He seemed to ponder something, and then came to a decision. “Would you like to learn two methods of fencing, or just the one?”

Alex blinked, and Sanya smiled. “I’m afraid I was trained, and thus have trained the Tirragen Guard, in the Tyran school of fencing. La verdara destreza, we call it. Which draws heavily on geometry, the movement of the body, and so on. It’s very different to the Tortallan school of fencing, which is generally suited to duels to first blood, and emphasises defence, although I understand that Duke Gareth favours a more aggressive style. Thus, if I were to train you in Tyran fencing, you would be forced to continue learning that – Aramis would be more than competent to instruct you, whilst I remain at the fief – and still learn the Tortallan way of fencing.”

Alex sighed. “More lessons. Well, the Palace seems to think it necessary that a knight should know how to write poetry, play a musical instrument, dance, speak a foreign language and be well versed in diplomacy, in addition to weapons training. Why not add another method of fencing to the list?”

Sanya’s face did not betray any of the pity Alex had been hoping to see. “I believe their curriculum is somewhat lacking,” Sanya rumbled.

Alex’s eyes widened. “Really?” he demanded. “What, exactly, did they leave out?”

“Childcare and lock-picking,” Sanya deadpanned, his face totally serious, only the crinkle of his eyes betraying the amusement at Alex’s mounting sense of horror. “Two essential skills for any young nobleman, in my view. But if you are willing, then we will add Tyran fencing to your curriculum." Sanya nodded in satisfaction. “We will begin tonight. After supper.”

Alex shook his head in disbelief. “Lockpicking,” he said. “Captain, with all respect, sometimes I wonder about what you got up to when you were, say, Duncan’s age.”

Sanya smiled at him. “When you get to be Duncan’s age, I’ll tell you,” he teased. “Now come on, it’s time for us to ride on.”

* * *

 

That night, Alex listened with fascination as Sanya explained la destreza.

“La destreza is about geometry, the way the body moves, and logical reasoning. Which has its advantages: unlike the Tortallan, or the Marenite, or even the Carthaki schools, it is inclusive of more than one variety of sword. You can use an arming sword – the one that most knights use,” Sanya clarified, at Alex’s quizzical look. “Or you could use a rapier, like your mother, or a sabre, like me,” he pointed to Leila’s blade, then to his own. “Both of them are highly effective, although the rapier is better for foot combat and the sabre is designed for mounted combat. But I think it would be wise for you to begin training with the arming sword, as it will benefit you to be well accustomed to it. And it’s a good all-rounder sword, for on foot and mounted combat.”

Alex nodded. Sanya drew the dagger he kept strapped to the top of his leather vambrace.

“Stand up,” he ordered Alex. Alex obeyed instantly, standing stock still. Sanya moved to stand beside him and plunged the dagger into the earth an inch from Alex’s foot. He then drew a straight line from Alex to a rock, and then from the rock to Leila’s foot, then from Leila’s foot to the other side of Alex’s foot.

“So what does geometry have to do with swordwork?” Alex asked.

“In destreza? Quite a bit. Both you and I stand in a circle, and to attack me, it is unwise for you to proceed in a straight line. Aramis, if you please.”

Aramis drew his longsword, and for the first time, Alex noticed how loosely both he and Sanya held their weapons. Easily, confidently, without even seeming to think about it in Sanya’s case. It was a tool, it was one with which they were utterly familiar, and it did precisely what they wanted. Sanya stood, his sabre in his right hand. The dagger he’d sheathed again.

“Aramis, please advance,” he said, calmly.

Alex watched, rapt. Aramis advanced, in a straight line, just like Sanya had instructed, and, once at a reasonable distance, swung the longsword, only stopping after his arm had begun its swing. Sanya’s sabre flashed, and counterstruck the blow, pushing it down towards the ground. Then Sanya moved, stamping on Aramis’ foot, and elbowing him in the gut; Aramis gasped, swore, and tried to bring the longsword to bear, but the weapon was not meant for close-ranged combat and he knew it. While he fumbled the weapon, Sanya had unsheathed his dagger and laid it neatly against Aramis’ throat, before dropping his hand again. Aramis picked his longsword up and sheathed it, and Sanya smiled at him.

“Thanks, Aramis,” he said.

“De nada,” Aramis replied.

Alex frowned; he hadn’t known that Aramis spoke Tyran. Sanya returned to meet Alex’s eyes.

“There’s no limit on the amount of weapons your opponent can carry,” he said quietly. “Not unless he’s very unimaginative. But you don’t plan on them being unimaginative, anymore than you would plan on them being stupid.”

Alex nodded tentatively. That made sense. “So you move to side to side, take stock of his weapons, and then you move?”

“Exactly. And when you move, you move fast,” Sanya smiled. “And we’ll start you with an arming sword. A blunt one, I think. Just in case.”

* * *

 

Alexander, Sanya thought ruefully, as he strode into the courtyard to find Alex waiting there for him, was taking to destreza like a duck to water. Which shouldn’t have surprised him. The boy had always been fond of numbers, and skilled with them. With some explaining, and lessons in geometry, he had quickly understood the principles. Sanya had quizzed the boy up, down and side-to-side on what their schedule at the Palace looked like; it wouldn’t do for the boy to become skilled in the sword, but not be able to throw a punch when he got back to the Palace, after at all.

However, he thought a solid six hours of physical activity was a bit much for a summer break. So it began in the evenings, after the muggy heat of the day had left but before the sun had set, with stretches and tumbling, drilling in hand-to-hand, shield-work, and swordplay. Duke Gareth’s training was bearing good fruit, he noted, as he guided Alex through the hand-to-hand combat he was drilling with Duncan. Alex used to concentrate on a single task single-mindedly, in the process expending much more energy than was required. There was a new economy of form to his movements, and a careful conversation of his energy. And, he noted, as Duncan flinched from one of the punches that Alex snuck past his guard, his overall skill and strength had increased.

“That’s one thing to say about running boys into the ground. Develops their strength,” Sanya mumbled under his breath.

Alex and Duncan both looked at him, halting their blows by mutual, silent agreement. Sanya shook his head. “Nothing. But we’ll leave the hand-to-hand there. Shields!”

They dashed to the edge of the courtyard, Alex arming himself with a heavy, wooden, metal-studded kite shield. Duncan slung a similarly shaped shield onto his back, and grabbed a wooden practise sword. For the next forty-five minutes, Alex and Duncan drilled in blocking attacks with the shield, and Sanya read an unusual degree of aggression in Alex’s strokes. Hmm. Duncan was easily blocking them, but Alex was throwing more of himself into the attacks on the shield than was needed. _Something’s bothering him_ , Sanya realised. Something that came into his mind just before he started his shield-work. And that wouldn’t do.

Sanya made a mental note to teach Alex about clearing his mind. Some people did it naturally, most often when it came to a real fight, as the adrenaline narrowed their world to them, their opponent, and each party’s weapons. But Alex’s father, mother and his immediate half-brother were all prone to strong emotions, ones that would bleed through and affect them subconsciously. Alex had quite a good grip on his temper, in terms of not losing it. But he would have to be taught ways of processing emotions, so that he didn’t become a jar of blaze-balm with his emotions. And the ideal time to teach him emotional control, Sanya knew, would be before he became a master swordsman.

“Hold,” he called firmly. They came to a halt, discipline holding firm.

“Why are we stopping?” Alex asked.

Sanya took a glance at the sun, and nodded. “We’ll take a twenty-minute break. Grab yourselves a drink, and then come back and sit with me.”

Duncan’s eyes were curious; he had picked up on the aggression in Alex’s blows, but hadn’t connected all the dots, Sanya realized. Fair enough. But they obeyed, and Sanya felt a surge of warm pride. Young noblemen only obeyed orders when they didn’t understand them out of one, overwhelming reason: respect. For his skill and rank, a bit, but mostly, because they knew his character. That same character required that he now took care of his youngest men, be they nobles or no.

If Jasper had still been here, Sanya knew, feeling a pang for that four-year old loss, he would have taken that duty on, readily and without hesitation. The man had striven always to do his duty, and in the few places he couldn’t, he had hired everyone necessary to get the job done.

But Jasper was gone, and Sanya could still remember the moment where the old man had fiercely clasped his arms, and demanded a gods’ oath that he would look after his sons.

 _Looks like the oath will be called in today_ , he thought, as Alex and Duncan returned from the courtyard’s well. He patted the ground beside him, and they sat gracefully.

“What’s bothering you, Alex?” he asked. The boy frowned, and shrugged.

“Nothing important, really.”

“No? So just important enough that you started trying to break your brother’s wrist?” Sanya smiled, trying to look reassuring. Yet stoic. And approachable, yet like a wise mentor. It was a hard look to pull off. Dammit, ten-year olds weren’t his area of expertise, swordsmanship was! He was competent for basic childcare, holding a fussing baby and calming it, certainly. But a child’s mind is a terrifyingly complicated place. Alex sighed, and was silent for a while. Sanya waited.

“Aramis wrote to you?” The question was so unexpected that Sanya blinked from astonishment.

“Yes, he did,” he replied, frowning.

“He mentioned the men I waited on, for my first week at the Palace?” Alex inquired.

“Yes,” Sanya nodded.

“Right. Well, here’s what’s been bothering me.” Alex took a deep breath, and then unleashed a torrent of questions and pent-up frustration. “Did they hate me because I’m a Bazhir? I assumed it was, but then something Sir Myles said made me think it might be because I’m a hillman as well. Or was it only because I’m a hillman? Or because I’m both? And how do they even know I’m a Bazhir, if the first? I can easily pass for a hillman. My skin’s barely a shade darker than Duncan’s!” Alex said, jerking a thumb towards his brother.

Sanya studied his charge carefully: the thoughts that were usually carefully ordered were coming out in a jumbled mess. Hmm. Although this would have been the first time Alex had, in his life, suppressed his emotions to function for a truly long period of time. Apparently, when repressed for so long, it interfered with his logical thinking. The tidal wave of emotion continued to roar, going from confused frustration to true anger now.

“And another thing. What gives them the right to believe themselves so superior, just because it was Jasson who absorbed Hill Country into Tortallan borders rather than Jonathan I? What difference does it make? Did they treat Jason like this? And–” Alex’s rage abruptly crashed to a halt, as he seemed to run out of words. He waved his hands uselessly, trying to convey something. Sanya kept his eyes level with the boy’s: turmoil reigned in black eyes, he saw. Turmoil, and confusion, and a great deal of hurt.

“I told Aramis to make sure I kept praying the dawn and night prayers,” Alex said quietly. “If they hated me because I was a Bazhir, then I didn’t want to let them win by forgetting it. But I’m not sure sometimes if I even want to be a Bazhir.” In addition to the confusion, there was an old, quiet anger in Alex’s eyes. “They hurt Mama. She’s the bravest, smartest, most beautiful, best person I know, and they cast her out of the tribe and left her for dead in the desert, when she was the one who had been wronged. Because a girl’s testimony is worth a quarter of a man’s under Bazhir law.” He shook his head. “I know Mama’s taught me everything she can, about Bazhir law and culture. But I’m really not sure I want to be a Bazhir, after what happened to her. But it’s like the idiots at the Palace are deciding who I am for me, when I don’t even know where I do belong, or where I want to.”

Sanya took a deep breath. “Well, that still leaves you with options,” he said, smiling gently at the boy. “First things first.” He opened his arms wide, and then moved in for a hug. The boy’s frame was trembling from the force of his emotion, and Sanya shot a quick prayer towards Mithros for wisdom.

“Duncan, where will Alex always have a place where he belongs?” he turned to the younger man.

Duncan looked startled at the question. “You need to ask?” he retorted incredulously. “Right here, obviously!” Sanya smiled a bit at that. When it came to rhetoric, Duncan would never be the brightest star in the sky; but his heart was a good one, strong and true.

“Exactly,” he said. He held the boy’s gaze firmly. “Alexander of Tirragen, son of Jasper of Tirragen, you will always belong here. You will always have a place here. You will always be safe here.”

Some of the fear in the boy’s eyes was beginning to lessen. Good. He continued. “Now, if I understand correctly, the core of your turmoil is that you are unsure where the hillman in you begins and where the Bazhir in you begins. And, in fact, whether you like there being Bazhir in you at all.” Alex nodded. “Tell me, did your father ever tell you my story?”

Curiosity dawned on Alex’s face, as he shook his head.

“I was born into slavery in Carthak,” Sanya told him. “When I was nine, I escaped with my father; we stowed away on a ship to Tyra. It was jarring; I had to learn a whole new culture, a whole new way of life. And I stuck out like a sore thumb,” he said, with a glance at his hand. “And I felt very...caught between. My father never learned Tyran, so I learned for both of us and became our interpreter. I learned Tyran fighting, not Carthaki; and I’d barely be able to hold a conversation in Carthaki these days. But I’m still a Carthaki, aren’t I?”

“I suppose so,” Alex frowned.

Sanya nodded. “We don’t choose our cultures. We don’t choose our families. We don’t choose to whom we were born, and we don’t choose our inheritance. But we do choose our characters. We can choose to accept the elements of our cultures that make our consciences scream. Or we can choose to take a different path, to count the blessings while rejecting the sins. What are, say, three things you admire about Tirragen’s culture?”

Alex thought about it for a while. “Our cunning. The fact that we expect girls to be good at fighting. The fact that we pulled together a confederacy hundreds of years ago and it stuck, while the westerners have had factional infighting every fifty years or so,” the reasons came slowly.

“Indeed. Those are Tirragen virtues. And your mother embodies many virtues of the Bazhir: she is honourable in the extreme, a woman of great integrity, and she drives a hard bargain,” Sanya said with a smile.

Alex considered this for a while, and gave a small smile. “I suppose that makes sense,” he admitted. “And about the idiots trying to define who I am for me?”

Sanya’s smile widened. Actually, it didn’t really resemble a smile; the teeth just happened to be bared. “They can try to, all they like, certainly. But they can only do that with your consent. Show them who you truly are, Alex. And ram the truth of it down their _throats_.” The boy gave a snort of laughter at that, and Sanya hastily added, “Metaphorically.”

“Oh, of course,” Alex snickered. “Metaphorically.”

Sanya quelled the snickers with a stern look, before clapping his hands. “Alright, you two. Enough. Swords!”

With that, the brothers dashed for the practise blades Sanya kept on the far side of the yard, near the leather posts. Messengers would use these posts and their attached iron loops to tether their horses, if bringing an urgent message; otherwise, Sanya found them ideal for teaching sword drills.

“First sequence. Begin! Thrust! Thrust! Shield block! Overhand cut! Shield down! Backhand side cut!”

The sequence manual was one of Sanya’s most prized possessions. A simple drill manual that comprised about fifteen different sequences of thrusts, cuts, and slashing attacks. While it was nothing like a good mêlée for teaching students creativity and imagination, there was nothing like the drills for engraining into the students. It was how his swordmaster had taught him the basics, and he had already passed a copy of the manual onto Aramis.

He was definitely going to need it, Sanya realized, as he called the third sequence. Alex appeared to be moving faster than he was calling the sequence. Meaning that he’d memorised at least the first three sequences.

…Which argued that he was doing _homework_ on this.

_Oh, Mithros have mercy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La verdara destreza is a true form of fencing, and it translates from Spanish as 'the true art' or 'the true skill.' It is indeed heavily dependent on geometry and non-linear footwork. For examples of its badassery, check out the 1632 series.  
> Sabres aren't really developed by this time period, contrary to what Ranger's Apprentice suggests, but let's Handwave that as any good sword-and-sorcerer fic is something of an Anachronism Stew.


	8. Thunder!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship.

The holiday had passed quickly enough, and soon, Alex was riding back up Palace Way. The heat had lingered in Corus, muggy and warm, and Alex wondered how everyone had coped without something like Lake Tirragen they could use to cool off.

Their rooms would stay the same through all four years of page training, according to Selwyn, and Alex had found it again easily, quickly unpacking his clothes. Aramis had opted to spend this year in the Guardhouse with Porthos and Athos, so Alex would have to attend to his chores himself.

Then there was a hail of fists on the door.

“Alex!”

He couldn’t help the smile. It felt _nice_ to be wanted.

He opened up the door, quietly and suddenly.

Francis, Gary and Raoul tumbled into the room in a heap. It was lucky for Francis that he was on top of the pile, Alex reflected, smirking and helping Francis up.

“A little help, Alex?” Raoul grumbled.

“Nope,” Alex said cheerfully, extending a hand to Gary as well, plopping down on the floor. “You’re much too heavy, Raoul.”

“Point taken,” Gary grumbled, taking the hand and untangling himself from Raoul. “So how was the summer?”

Alex’s smile widened. “Loads of fun. It was good to be back home. Yours?”

Gary groaned. “Mother kept scolding me about how I needed to pull fewer pranks.”

Raoul and Francis nodded in unison, before Francis added, “Honestly, Gary, making Lady Miel fall in love with the hostler for three days wasn’t _that_ witty.”

Gary gasped indignantly, and Alex rubbed his forehead. _Goddess, thank you that I was on the other side of the country_.

“Douglass said it was amazing!” Gary said.

“Douglass has about as much sense as you,” Alex felt compelled to point out.

“I have a great deal of sense!”

“Indeed. As much sense as an addled goose,” Alex said, shaking his head, as he folded another garment. Francis smiled and started helping put the red and gold uniform in the airing cupboard.

Alex grinned at Gary’s outraged look.

“Remind me why I missed him, Raoul?”

“Because no-one else would make Sir Myles’ class interesting for you,” Raoul said promptly. “Or wind up Ralon properly.”

Alex snorted. “I didn’t know that Ralon was a clockwork bully. But it would explain why he can only think of one insult per person.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Francis agreed, holding up Alex’s blade-cleaning kit. “Where–”

“Allow me,” Alex swiped it from him deftly, stowing it on a shelf which held his books.

There was a cough from the doorway. Alex turned, surprised.

A boy, a first-year, seeing as he’d already changed into his red and gold uniform when they wouldn’t be waiting attendance until several hours later. Very handsome, too, with large blue eyes, a straight nose, thick black hair, and pale skin.

“Oh, sorry, Jon!” Gary said, scrambling to his feet. “I completely forgot.”

Alex’s eyes widened. Deep blue eyes glimmering with a strong Gift, the same colour as the blue of the Conté’s sign. Jon, presumably short for Jonathan. First-year this year. A ramrod straight spine, and body language that somehow made him the centre of the room, despite him still being in the doorway.

Alex bowed as gracefully as he could manage. It almost certainly wasn’t as deep as was needed. In fairness, he was a bit startled.

Of all the ways you expected to end up meeting your Crown Prince, this wasn’t exactly the way. He’d never thought that the Prince would stoop and train as an ordinary page, like the son of any fief could.

“Your Highness,” he managed around his surprise.

The boy looked both annoyed and alarmed by the bow. _Why?_

“Please, no need for that,” he said, raising his hands, imploringly. “Call me Jon. It’s what my friends call me.”

Alex’s eyebrows shot up. _The Prince wants to be_ friends _?_

_Why? I’m a Bazhir-hillman social liability, aren’t I? Fighting skills don’t balance that out._

“Alright…Jon,” he said, testing it out. The younger boy smiled at him. _Well, that much was for true._

“And you are?”

“Alex,” Alex recovered from the shock, extending his hand. _Let’s see how informal he wants to get_. “Alex of Tirragen.”

The younger boy took his hand and shook it with a firm grip.

“Also known as my rival for best fighter in our year,” Raoul chimed in. “Except for wrestling. There’s no contest there.”

“You watch, Goldenlake,” Alex replied, spinning to jab him in the chest with a finger. “This year, you are going _down_. Which reminds me. Gary, when do we start wearing the harnesses?”

Gary sighed. “Tonight. We’re supposed to go get ours from the tanners today. Jon, do you want to come?”

“Why not?” Jon agreed amiably, as the pages left the room. Alex cast a sidelong glance at Jon, as the younger boy laughed at Gary’s plans to get out of Philosophy tomorrow.

_So, this is a prince? He seems…nice. Not usually how you hold rank, being nice._

As they crossed the Palace courtyard to the tanner’s, he cast an eye up at the sky. It was cloudy, and still oppressively hot; the thick mugginess before the storm.

_Crap._

The storm would break tonight.

And there’d be no way that he could make it through banquet attendance with that, not even waiting on Sir Myles. Although he’d have to show up, and keep a brave face, until someone dismissed him. Nobody would ever let him live it down if they found out, but hiding wasn’t an option. Could he claim being sick?

He was aware of his reputation. Bazhir boy. Hill barbarian (sometimes jokingly said, sometimes not.) Stubborn enough to argue with Sir Myles. Collected, impassive, and sarcastic. Ferocious when it came to staffs, hand-to-hand and any form of fighting (admittedly thoroughly trounced by Raoul in wrestling.) Able to sit a horse like he’d been born in the saddle. The words ‘pretty boy’ had been thrown around once or twice, as well.

 _‘Petrified of thunderstorms_ ’ did not fit anywhere into that reputation that he had carved for himself.

“Alex?”

A pale hand was waving across his eyes, and he blinked.

Jonathan of Conté looked at him, his eyes puzzled. “You seemed far away, for a minute, there.”

Alex smiled, and from the way the skin around Jon’s eyes tightened, the other boy could see straight through it. “Just daydreaming,” Alex said, lengthening his stride. “Come on, let’s catch up.”

* * *

 True to his predictions, the storm broke that night. Just as they were bringing out the soups.

The crack of thunder sounded, incredibly loud, _just how close was it_ , _it felt like it was right on top of him_. His throat closed up, and blood roared in his ears.

Far away, the bowlful of soup fell from nerveless fingers, splashing over his uniform.

Then there was an unfamiliar voice, an arm around his waist guiding him to an alcove, a whispered promise in his ear “Give me a minute, I’ll get you back to your rooms, I promise–” and thank the Goddess, but it wasn’t _pity_ in the other boy’s voice, just calm understanding – and Alex sunk against the wall of alcove, his back to the stone, unable to stop a cry from leaving his throat.

“Alex. Alex!” the voice was back, and Alex looked up.

 _Oh_. It was the Prince, his blue eyes very big, filled with concern, but not frightened. A pale hand was stretched out to him, and Alex took it, hesitantly.

“Come on,” Jonathan said, his voice low. “I’m not waiting on anyone tonight, Gary wanted me to just observe. He’s a bit overprotective sometimes.”

 _Must be a family trait_ , he thought, flinching at the next thunderclap. Jon’s hand tightened around his arm.

“Alex. Breathe. One, two, three,” Jon said, steering him out of the alcove and into another corridor, taking an exaggerated deep breath. “Out, two, three.”

 _Numbers. Focus on the numbers_. Alex could _do_ numbers. He forced himself to breathe – in, two, three, out, two, three.

Ten breaths later, and another thunderclap and a flinch, he nodded shakily at Jon.

Jon gave him a small smile. “There. Let’s get you back to your rooms. Will your manservant be there?”

Alex shook his head, as they took the stairs up to the page’s corridor.

“N-no. Aramis is billeted in the Guardsman’s barracks this year, and he doesn’t know about–” for some reason, he couldn’t get the actual words out. Jon cocked his head to the side, curious.

“You didn’t get thunderstorms like this in Hill Country?”

“Rarely,” Alex said, opening the door to his room with shaking fingers. If Jon noticed, he pretended not to. “And the few times we did, there was always Mama, and my brothers.”

Jon made a humming, considering noise, as he stepped into Alex’s room. “You’re going to want to get out of the uniform. Want a hand?”

Alex began to shake his head, then looked at his hands. They were still trembling. If he tried to untie his points like that, he’d tear the fabric.

“Maybe,” he managed to get out, before he started working at the tunic’s buttons.

They managed to get the uniform off with only a few rips, but Alex winced at the tears. He’d have to mend those tomorrow night. Thank Mithros for spares.

“You’re not scared of thunderstorms. How come you’re here?” he asked Jon, as he leaned against the wall, his back against the cold stone. Jon threw the blanket at him.

“We’re _friends_ , Alex. This is what friends do for each other.” The younger boy sounded genuinely exasperated, and Alex wrapped the blanket around himself. Jon crossed the room again, standing in front of Alex, and pulling him into a hug.

Alex tensed; Jon either didn’t notice, or did an excellent job of pretending to not notice. Either way, he made no motion to release Alex. One hand was rubbing circles into Alex’s blanket-covered back, the other was firmly wrapped around Alex’s waist.

There was another crack of thunder, and it sounded _so_ close. Alex shuddered, and gave in, wrapping his arms around the other boy, accepting the comfort he offered.

“It’s alright,” Jon whispered. “I’m here. The others will come as soon as dinner’s over, and they’re going to bring food, so we can eat. And we’re going to stay with you, Alex, and you won’t be alone, because _friends don’t leave each other when they’re like this_. Do you hear me? We’re here for you. We’re staying.”

True to Jon’s word, a couple of hours later, the others showed up. They didn’t say anything, and Alex was grateful for that. They just shoved him and Jon an enormous sandwich each, before exiting silently, and then returning, armed with pillows and blankets. Clearly, it had been a pre-arranged strategy. They set about constructing a nest on the floor, and Alex smiled thinly as a long-forgotten memory popped into place. Duncan teaching him how to build one of these, several years ago, during another thunderstorm. A pillow fort.

The nest constructed, they stood awkwardly, hands in their pockets, until Jon stretched, gave an enormous fake yawn, and toppled into the nest, rolling to one edge. Alex felt his heart warm, at the Prince choosing to protect everybody’s pride by sacrificing his own dignity.

“Come on, everyone,” Jon said, not even bothering to open his eyes. “It’s way past lights out.”

At that, the group piled into the nest. Raoul was in the centre. Francis was wedged between Raoul and Jon; Alex found himself flanked by Raoul and Gary. He still flinched with every clap of thunder, but Gary’s arm around his shoulder and Raoul’s back against his own were anchors, preventing him from curling up into a ball.

He still felt embarrassed. Still felt the shame that wanted to rise up his throat, because _what kind of a knight is scared of a little thunder?_

But his friends didn’t seem to agree. Didn’t seem to think it made him any less worthy of their friendship.

They just…wanted to be there for him, be there with him. Because he was theirs.

Alex closed his eyes.

It felt nice.

* * *

 

Duke Gareth regarded the nest of pages on the floor of Alex of Tirragen’s chambers.

He turned to Timon. “A written description of this, please. I would like to commission a sketch from Volney Rain. Later, a painting.”

Timon nodded, with a smile that he very quickly hid.       

Duke Gareth strode into the room, grabbed a pitcher of water, and dumped it on the pages. They awoke, spluttering and indignant. Tirragen, in particular, looked spluttering, confused and murderous all at once. But that was normal; Tirragen _always_ looked murderous to one degree or another before ten, and so far, the Palace had survived.

Hmm. Perhaps a sketch of _this_ moment as well. It was _hilarious_ , and for the first time in a few years, Duke Gareth found himself biting back guffaws.

“The stables have been damaged in the thunderstorm,” Duke Gareth informed them. “For sleeping outside of your rooms, sleeping through your first classes of the first day and neglecting your duties–”

The older pages – everyone except Jon, that is – looked horrified and terrified. And _still_ murderous, in Tirragen’s case. Jon just looked confused, and Gareth realized, _oh, it’s his first time being punished for something instead of his whipping boy._ “You will have six weeks’ of punishment work repairing the damage. Without physical assistance from the hostlers.”

“Yes, sir,” the boys chorused dully. Gareth couldn’t help a thin smile.

“Think of it as a training exercise,” he added. _Your first battle, against the mighty foe of the moulding hay._

“Yes, sir,” Tirragen mumbled, looking stubborn. Gareth bit back another chuckle, instead nodding brusquely.

“Get changed. You’re going to be late for Mathematics.”

At that, murderous stubbornness mutated into horror – _missing Mathematics? Oh, no! –_ , and Gareth whirled on his foot, before his poker face cracked entirely.

 _Puppies in a basket,_ he thought, unable to keep a fond smile from quirking his lips now that the pages couldn’t see it anymore. _All paws and tails._

* * *

 

“Ratty little puppy, aren’t you?”

Akela spat the blood out of her mouth and looked up, warily. The quartet of boys who’d cornered her had disappeared.

The boy was a few years older than her, maybe fourteen, looking amused. He was much taller than her, maybe 5 feet eight inches compared to her five feet. He had a square jaw, a big nose that had been broken once, and then set, and dancing hazel eyes that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. It wasn't that he seemed untrustworthy. There was just a feeling that he was seeing to your core, which was a touch unnerving. She’d seen him a couple of times before, hadn't she? She thought, frowning. Yes, she was sure of it. At Mistress Eleni’s.

“You really shouldn’t run in the Cesspool on your own, you know, not unless you were raised there,” he said.

She shrugged, accepting the hand he offered to her, focussing on thickening her developing Jane Street accent to make her point. “This place – the city, I mean – supposed ta be mine now. Don’ see why part of it should be off limits to me.”

He smiled. “George. You?”

She smiled back. “Akela. You’re Mistress Cooper’s son, right? Did they send you to look for me?”

He nodded. “Your cousins are working their way through Rovers Street and around the Markets. I had a hunch you’d be down around this way, though.”

She wiped at her bleeding lip.

“Thanks,” she said eventually. “For the rescue.”

He smiled. “No problem. Want me to teach you? So that you can take care of ‘em all next time?”

She nodded. “It’d be…what’s the word? Awkward for me to be a Guard and then need to be rescued all the time.”

He cocked his head. “You’re a bit…small for a Guard, ain’tcha?”

She gave him an unimpressed look, falling into step beside him. She couldn’t quite hide the wince as she put the weight on her left foot; she must have landed wrong on her ankle. He offered her his arm, and she stared.

“Ma was a priestess,” George said, clearly seeing the question in her eyes. “She’s big on manners. You look like you could use it.”

She nodded, hesitantly, and leaned some of her weight onto it.

“When y’ say I’m a bit small, you mean I’m a girl,” she said.

“No, I meant small. But that too,” he agreed. “It won’t be easy.”

She shrugged. “Neither is living here when I’ve been a roaming Player all my life. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

He nodded, considering. “Your Uncle won’t be happy with you coming home bruised and bloody-lipped.”

“No,” she agreed, shaking her head and then wincing at the spurt of dizziness that created. Cooper transferred her arm to around his waist, and then banded his arm around her middle. “But on the other hand, it was for a good cause.”

“What was that about, anyway?”

“They were torturing a li’l ol’ tabby,” she said.

“So you decided getting into a fight with them was the best idea?” he asked, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation.

She shrugged. “They started it. Besides, it means Uncle Erik will have to agree to teaching me to fight now now. ‘S the third time I’ve given them the slip this week in my free time.”

“You sure he won’t just try and get a dragon to be your nursemaid?” George asked, amused.

Akela snorted at the quip, unable to stop her grin from widening. “Dragons aren’t cheap, this option _is,_ and Uncle Erik is good at arithmetic.”

* * *

 As it turned out, Erik’s reaction was to yell at her for giving her cousins the slip – “ _What were you thinking?_ You’ve only been in Corus for two months, Akela! If George hadn’t found you–” – for getting bruised – “And coming home with a bloody lip and a black eye, to boot!” – and then for some of the anger to abruptly drain away when she told him why she’d come home with said injuries. His judgement was considered by all parties to be fair: she was confined to the _Dogrose_ for a month, and she would have to be up with the dawn to start morning exercises with her cousins.

She had to try very hard to suppress her grin at that. A new friend, she’d learn how to fend for herself, and another step to becoming a Guard was already in motion. And she’d learned how to find her way around the Cesspool, too.

Things were looking up.

Now she just had to win back her cousins and her aunt and uncle’s trust. That would be difficult. But from the way that Aunt Harmony’s hands were dabbing at her bruises, while Erik muttered at the door about “going to give me grey hairs before I’m forty, at this rate”, she’d already gained part of their hearts.

And for the first time since the Rosehips had left Corus, Akela felt like she was home.       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because I wanted all of the friendship feels.


	9. To the Rafters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys repair a rafter. It's harder than it looks.

_4th of December,_

_426 H.E_

_To the Lady Dowager_

_Leila bint Diyari of Tirragen,_

_once of the Sleeping Lion,_

_greetings!_

_Mama,_

_Sorry for not writing. I know I promised, but promises of writing are a tricky thing to carry out at the Palace. We tend to get run off our feet, between waiting on nobles, adjusting to the physical training schedule for the year, our classwork, and punishment work. It’s no joke, honestly. It’s even worse for the other boys. They’ve started growing like weeds._

_On another note, remember that Very Serious Talk you gave me about letting people take me under their wing? This should thrill you. I don’t think I ever told you about the friends I made last year. Well, ‘made’ is a bit of an exaggeration. That makes it sound like I had a hand in it, and it honestly felt more like how the ingredients in a stewpot must feel when they meet all the others. You’re all tossed together, whether you like it or not at the start, but it turns out well, someway, somehow._ _Their names are Raoul of Goldenlake, Gareth of Naxen (the Younger – I’d sooner try befriending a tiger than His Grace. It’s less likely to chew on me –), Francis of Nond, Selwyn of Pearlmouth – I think I told you about him, my sponsor from last year– and His Highness Jonathan of Conté. I was a bit wary of him at first, but he’s very nice and quite charming. He also has no idea how consequences work._

* * *

“Being punished is _strange_ ,” Jon mumbled, as he trundled a wheelbarrow of hay to the giant compost heap. It was a fair walk from the stables, so it was best done with the wheelbarrows.

Alex snorted from behind the handles of his own wheelbarrow. “You’ll get used to it fast. What, it’s never happened to you before?”

“Not in the form of chores, no,” the Prince replied, braking his wheelbarrow. “Usually, I just go to my room.” He tried to heave it up to unload it. The compost heap was enormous, what with the sheer amount of manure from various animals, dead plants, and now mouldering hay. Silently, Alex joined him, gesturing for him to take one handle.

“I can do it myself,” Jon protested.

“You really can’t yet,” Alex sighed. Jon shot him a wounded look. Alex shrugged, unsympathetically. “What? I said _yet._ ”

Alex frowned as he took the handle. It felt…sticky? What had the previous handlers been _doing_?

Together, they heaved and the hay tumbled onto the compost heap. Jon stretched and then flinched when he saw his hands. Alex frowned, and took one pale hand in his own.

Alex swore. The Prince’s palms were _covered_ in blisters. Big, red, angry, weeping blisters.

“Let’s get you to the infirmary,” he said.

“But the work–” Jon protested.

“Jon. Blisters have led to people _dying_ untreated,” Alex retorted. “I am _not_ explaining to His Majesty that I told his heir to get on with his punishment rather than go to Duke Baird for a _ten-minute_ healing.”

Jon sighed, but nodded.

After that, Alex made sure he always carried some salve and bandages on the inside of his tunic. Just in case.

Jon had looked after Alex, that first night. It was only right for him to return the favour.

* * *

 

_That bit was only the first part. It was part of fixing the rafters in the stables when it was damaged in a thunderstorm. If Aramis mentioned anything about me balancing on a roof, then yes, that did happen. Take it up with Duke Gareth, if you’re angry. I wouldn’t have done it in the first place if I hadn’t roped in Porthos as a catcher, and few feet of hay._

* * *

The punishment work on the stables was easier than he’d been expecting, though. This was because of two factors. The first, because Duke Gareth had reluctantly ceded it would be impossible for them to get the stables repaired in any timely fashion if they had to wait on nobles _and_ do their classwork _and_ fit in only an hour or less of the punishment work. He had therefore dismissed them from waiting on the nobles, which had the added benefit of making Master Hans turn purple with indignation when he found out he would be missing _five_ pages.

Alex was sad about that in a way, though. He had missed Master Hans’ reaction, having to hear about it from Selwyn instead. And he missed Myles.

The second factor, though, was because Jon was surprisingly good at picking out their strengths.

Raoul and Gary pitched the mouldering hay in into the barrows; Francis calmed the horses who were alternately skittish, grumpy, and needy; and Jon and Alex, having neither as much strength as Raoul or Gary nor a particular gift with horses, were unceremoniously wheeling the hay to and fro the compost bins. Of course, once even the backlog of mouldering hay ran out, the roles shifted. They had to begin repairing the stables proper now. This was the most mathematical part of the job, which Duke Gareth still saw fit to leave to them.

At least Master Yayin had helped him work out some of the principles that would be involved, with a wink and a murmur of “Stop fretting, lad. I won’t tell His Grace.” Thank _Mithros_ for that. It would have been impossible otherwise.

“Raoul, can you pass word to get the beam up?” Alex called, from where he was on edge of the roof. The last of the mouldy hay and the used straw from the stalls had been piled beneath him, about five feet deep, just in case. Plus all the layers he was wearing would provide a little cushioning.

The lightning strike had significantly damaged a lot of the roof’s tiles, charring and breaking them, and the subsequent water damage to the rafters meant they were no longer sound, according to Stefan. But they had to be replaced before the roof could be. At least the stable loft still had a floor, if one that you needed to be very light to stand on. Hence why they were doing the job, and not the ostlers.

Duke Gareth’s sense of humour deserved some of the credit too, though.

There was a grunt of exertion, and then the beam was raised up the ladder, until it lay on the floor of the loft. Alex tightened his grip on the weathervane. _Goddess above, have mercy_ , he thought, distantly. He’d probably live if he fell, but would also probably have a couple of broken bones. An acrobat, he was not. Only the fact that he was in his bare feet and that Porthos was watching like a hawk was enough to keep him up there.

“Alright. Jon, Gary, how much training have you had with your Gift?”

There was a pause. “We can light fires?” Gary called up.

For a long, long moment, Alex wanted to break something.

Of _course_ the westerners wouldn’t train their Gifted children to _actually use_ their magic. Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ they do a thing like that? And if that child was a Prince, who was _by law_ obligated to serve his people in every way, why would that change?

“Alright,” he called back, keeping his voice level. Or at least not showing anger. It wasn’t their fault if their fathers were idiots. See: various previous examples. Alex was contemplating keeping a list. “Take a straw of hay, and see if you can get some of your magic under it, to lift it.”

There was silence, and then Jon called back, excitement in his voice. “I’m doing it!”

“Is the magic a square or a sphere?”

“Does it matter?”      

Alex couldn’t keep himself from rolling his eyes. Jon couldn’t see him, so his feelings were irrelevant. “Yes, it matters. What is it?”

“Sphere.”

“Can you make it a square? Or a rectangle?”

And then there was silence again, and Alex counted in his head to distract himself. _Three thousand and one, three thousand and two, three thousand and three…_

“We did it! It’s a rectangle. Both our Gifts. Same length and width as the hay straw.”

“Good! Now we need you to do that for the beam when we take out the old one. It’s not safe anymore, with the water in the cracks. It’s just waiting for rot.”

There was a pause. “Run that by us again, Alex?” came Francis’ voice.

“The beam’s not safe anymore, what with the flooding and the –”

“Yes, we got that. The bit after that.”

“We need to replace it.”

“Really?”

Sometimes, you could use the sarcasm Gary could pack into a single word as a blunt instrument. Like right now, for instance.

“Crazy, isn’t it? Here’s the thing. The floor _probably_ isn’t strong enough to bear the weight of both beams at once. So Jon, Gary, you are going to have to cushion one beam as we lower it, and keep it from touching the loft floor until we can get the other one in.”

He could almost hear them exchanging doubtful glances.

“Not sure we’re all strong enough to do that, Alex,” Raoul said. “There are five of us, and that support beam’s about six feet, easy.”

“Six feet divided by five is one point two feet each,” Alex retorted. “And I’ll bet you we carry that much in books and papers. Not to mention four of us have harnesses as well. I think we can do it.”

Raoul grumbled. “Why does there have to be _more_ mathematics?”

“Because it’s our way out of punishment work,” Alex yelled back. “It’s worth a shot.”

There was more grumbling. “Fine,” Francis yelled, “we’re coming up the ladder now.”

Alex smiled, and then crawled over to the gaping, ragged hole in the centre of the roof. Gingerly balanced on the lip of the hole for a second, and then jumped, his arms clasping the beam just long enough to delay his fall and soften the impact on the loft floor. But it was still unmistakeably a fall.

He groaned, feeling the blood in his mouth from the impact.

“Easy,” said someone from beside him. Raoul? Yes, it was Raoul. “You alright?”

“Mmf.”

“Didn’t quite catch that.”

“’m fine,” Alex said more clearly, as Raoul hauled him to his feet. And he was. Some blood in his mouth, but he was fine.

“You’ve got the beginnings of a black eye.”

Oh, so that was why he couldn’t see so well, rather than the fading light. “Raoul, what _else_ is new?” Alex shot a savage grin at him, then turned aside to spit the blood out. Raoul nodded, with a smile. _Point_.

The other boys had climbed up to join them, and Alex’s smile widened. Soon. Very soon, they would replace the central beam, and they would be _done_ with this.

“Alright. So…oh.”

He had forgotten something. Namely, that the old support beam would not magically detach itself from the rafter, and the new would not magically graft itself to the walls. So what did they need? Something sticky. And something…slicey. More slicey than their daggers.

He glanced at the moon. Jon caught his glance and shook his head meaningfully. Alex took the point.

“Alright, we can’t get it done tonight,” he sighed. “But tomorrow? We are _finishing_ this.”

* * *

_It turned out that you were right, Mother. The project is always more work than you expect._

* * *

It didn’t happen tomorrow. Not for a few days, actually. And it took some creative thinking to come up with all the supplies they’d need and how to obtain them. Some, like the staves, were the last to be obtained, and they had to be purloined from the combat teachers at the end of class. (Alex’s idea, to make sure that the loft wouldn’t fall down in between beams, if the magic cushioning didn’t work.)

Some, like the buckets of pitch, had been cheerfully donated by a representative of the Carpenter’s Guild whom Gary had managed to track down. The saws had been donated by some of the servants, who had already harvested enough wood for the Palace fires that night and who had been persuaded by Jon’s big blue eyes and charisma. But finally, _finally_ they were sure they had everything they needed to begin sawing through the beams.

Raoul sawed at the middle, whilst Francis and Alex both stood on upended buckets in order to saw at either end. Gary and Jon practised making bigger and bigger squares of magic to hold things up, creating draughts of wind. Alex smiled, even as sweat ran down his forehead.

Soon, very, very soon.

“Heads up!” he called to Jon and Gary. Not a moment too soon, because as he gave one last tug on the saw, there was a definite _groan_ from the beam.

The pink-and-blue Gift was a thin cushion, rather than the solid foot or so he had mentally envisaged. But it was off the floor.

_…Crap._

Another thing he hadn’t thought of. If Jon and Gary couldn’t hold the beam and their magic at the same time, then how would they swap the beams out?

Raoul took hold of the beam, squatting. “What say we stick it down the ladder, like we did with the new one?” he suggested. “No sense taking chances with the floor.”

Alex shot him a grateful look.

“Yes. Fine. Perfect, that should work,” he said, squatting to take his end. “Francis, can you get a grip around your end?”

The blond boy nodded, and gripped.

“On three, then, drop the shield. One, two – _now!_ ”

Jon and Gary, who had been standing with their fists clenched, beads of sweat dripping down their foreheads, unclenched their fists with a sigh, as the pink and blue Gifts dissipated.

“Don’t just stand there,” Raoul grinned, “you’re not getting out of this that easily.”

Jonathan sighed. “I think I should re-evaluate my life choices.”

“What’s that mean in Tortallan?”

“I hate being a page.”

“You’re not the only one,” Alex said. “Francis, we’re going to need to go sideways. No, other sideways. To your left.”

“Alex, if we go _other sideways,_ then I’ll be over empty air.”

“Shoe pinches on your foot, doesn’t it?”

“Not fair! You had a hay pile beneath you, not a bunch of wooden stalls!” Francis protested.

Alex scowled. That was true. Hmph.

“Raoul, how far through the middle did you get?”

“All the way. Could we just toss the halves down separately?”

“…Right. That’s fine, we’ll just toss down them one half at a time.” Alex pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Raoul repeated, drawing on those reserves of easygoingness that Alex sincerely envied.

Alex groaned, and nodded. He was losing his mind _,_ he just _knew_ it.

Francis cupped his hands to yell down. It was quite possibly the first time Alex had ever seen the boy raise his voice. “Anyone hanging around, get away from the loft space! We’re tossing down the old beam!”

Alex frowned. Why would someone be hanging around?

No matter. They did exactly that.

The second part of the operation was considerably easier, and Alex collapsed in relief once it was done.

“Finally,” he mumbled.

Then he frowned as there was a distant sound of clapping.

“Bravo! Bravo, you all!”

Curious by this stage, Alex crawled to the lip of the loft’s entry, and saw the unmistakeable potbelly of Sir Myles. And he was _applauding._

…He’d just been watching them. This whole time.

“Sir Myles,” Alex croaked. “I hate you, so very much.”

The man looked up and grinned at him. “You’re a good lad too, Alex. Now, about these staves?” he tapped one of the supports gently. “And their resemblance to the combat staff’s teaching staves?”

Alex groaned. “Yes, Sir Myles.”

The process of shinning down the ladder was not as easy as climbing it had been at the beginning. Now that the most stressful part of the thing was done, Alex could feel all the fatigue of their new punishment work and the harnesses come crashing down on him, like the rains had all come at once.

“Easy, lad,” Sir Myles said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, tugging him against him.

It wasn’t strong, it wasn’t manly, and it wasn’t dignified. Alex really didn’t give a damn by this point.

He buried his face in Myles’ ribs, and for a moment, appreciated the comfortable padding.

“I am never, ever doing that _ever_ again,” he said firmly. He denied any instance of tears or quavering in his voice.

He felt Myles patting him on the back.

“Well aware, Alex. You did well.”

And he wouldn’t admit it, but that helped. It helped a lot.

* * *

_Anyway, we got our part of the job done in the end. For some reason, His Grace looked a little surprised when we told him about the process. I don’t know why. He explicitly told us to use every resource we could think of, short of making anyone else do the work for us. We had to get creative._

_But that’s the end of that story._

_Another story. Aramis is teaching me how to sew and mend. I’m beginning to need it. I keep getting rips and tears in my tunics. And the growth spurt hasn’t even started yet._

* * *

The night after the thunderstorm, Aramis taught Alex how to stitch.

“Dammit!” Alex swore, as he missed the thread through the needle again.

Aramis sighed from where he was reading his book in the alcove.

“Have you tried licking the end of the thread yet?’

“What?”

Aramis set down the book. “Observe.”

He measured out a length of thread, then snapped it with a casual twist of the wrist. Licked one end before holding it up to the needle, and, moving very slowly, carefully slid it through.

He handed it to Alex. “Slow and steady. You’ll get better with practise, of course.”

Alex swore again, as he threaded the needle through, and tried to stitch, only for the thread to come out the other side.

Aramis massaged his brow. “Right. For future reference: _knot the other end first_.”

“How do soldiers _do_ this?” Alex mumbled despairingly.

Aramis patted him on the shoulder. “I’m told most of them do. Although there is a small minority which never learns and spends far too much money on getting women to do the mending they could do themselves. Now. Show me the buttons.”

* * *

_We’re also due to begin learning the sword after Midwinter this year. As Sanya predicted, Duke Gareth’s training is an interesting process. It’s run by a man named Arram Sklaw. Have you heard of him? Or has Sanya? From what Selwyn tells me, he looks like a pirate from a fairytale, complete with eye-patch and accent._

* * *

“I’m serious!” Selwyn said, through a mouthful of stew. “They say he fought a tiger and won!”

Alex was flicking through his notes for Philosophy. His precious few notes. Damn. This was _not_ going to end well. Their Philosophy teacher had decided to test what they knew, and he had taken…well, as few notes this year as he had last year.

“So?” he mumbled.

Selwyn stuck out his tongue.

Alex rolled his eyes.

“Fought a tiger,” Selwyn repeated. “And _won_. That’s how he lost the eye.”

“Where did he even meet a tiger?” Alex frowned. “It’s a bit of a bother to travel to the Copper Isles just to have a tussle with one.”

Selwyn waved an airy hand. “That’s easy, he was on shore leave.”

“I'm going to regret this. Shore leave?”

“From his stint as a pirate captain.”

“ _How is he a pirate captain?”_ Alex hissed, composure lost. “I thought you said he was in the Army!”

“The eye-patch, obviously. Accent’s a dead giveaway. And I didn’t say he was _only_ in the Army. He’s definitely familiar with more than one sword-style. Keep _up_ , Alex.”

* * *

_Of course, then Selwyn started teasing me about my accent, which is non-existent. Selwyn’s just being a tease. It’s how he shows affection, I’m fairly sure._

_Thank you for your presents in advance. I believe yours and the family’s are already en route, Sanya’s included. I miss Midwinter with you all, and miss the feasts and the bonfires._

_On the bright side, one year down. Three to go._

_…unless we count the squire years as well. ~~Dammit.~~_

_With love,_

_Alex_

* * *

Leila buried her face in her hands.

“At least he wrote, this time?” offered Duncan, who’d come seeking news of his little brother. Jason nodded in agreement beside him.

“Up a roof,” she murmured. “A _roof_.”

“He’s always shown himself to be very adept at climbing before,” Sanya said mildly.

Leila gave him a sharp, side-long glance. “Moments like this are _precisely_ why I did not want to know exactly what you taught him for the months of the year when you had custody.”

Sanya tried to look reassuring. And stolid. And immovable. “It’s worth mentioning that whether you know what he was up to or not, did not in fact change it. Or affect his survival.”

“No, but it made me _feel_ better,” she grumbled, poking at the letter, as if trying to make her son submit to examination so she could be sure he was well.

 _Bright Goddess, when I prayed for my son, I did_ not _ask you to make him this intelligent. Nor this unafraid of heights. I seem to recall having a self-preservation instinct._

She could almost hear Jasper’s gentle chuckle. _Leila. We pray, the gods move, and we can but ride the wave. ‘Surfing’, as the Pearlmouth call it._

_You never had much self-preservation either, did you, Jasper?_

She’d miss him. She always would. But the wound of losing her husband had scarred over. She’d known going into it that a marriage would be saying goodbye to him, sooner or later. But every moment where she’d woken up beside him, every moment of her hand in his, had been worth it.

And damn if her son didn’t remind him more and more of him with each passing day.

Still.

“Up a _roof_.” She shook her head. “Everyone, please meet me in the study in ten minutes. I wish to compose a suitably pointed letter towards His Grace of Naxen. And I think it had best be a family effort.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted more friendship feels, okay?
> 
> Also, 500 hits. 35 kudos. 4 bookmarks. So many comments. Guys, I really, seriously love you. I would cuddle with you all right now. 
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry about the long wait between updates. I wish I could say it won't happen again, but Uni's kicked in, so it probably will. But even if I can't carry this baby all the way through SoTL, odds are good of making it through The Page Years.
> 
> Credit to the lovely _Adrena_line_ for all her help, and her patient listening and sifting through my babble.


	10. Second Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: In which friendships are sealed, blades are found, and Clueless geeks out some more on the details of martial arts. (Because once you start writing friendship feels, you just can’t stop.)

The last night before the Midwinter feast ended, five pages gathered in the room of the Crown Prince of Tortall. It couldn’t really have been identified as such. There was a privacy screen for Jon’s valet, but aside from that, it was the same narrow bed, desk, and dresser occurred with every page’s room.

Nearly all of the gifts had been exchanged, and Alex was happy to know that his gifts had been received well. He’d never been too imaginative, when it came to gifts, and in the end would usually settle for something that he knew was needed and would serve well.

A new dagger for Raoul. New quills for Gary, who was forever breaking them, with his too-tight grip. Francis’ gift had been easy, as well: the blond boy’s fair skin marked easily, and he barely went a day without sporting either painful swellings on the arms or some kind of contusion. A small jar of Duke Baird’s finest. Jon’s gift had taken a considerable amount of thought, before Alex decided on a book of incantations and spells.

“You don’t think it’s cheating?” the Prince’s eyes had something in them that had Alex feeling almost wary.

“Well, no,” Alex replied, his eyes narrowing as he tried to read what was going on. Jon was a good friend, but sometimes, it was painfully obvious when he was plotting. That made it no easier to guess what the plot in question actually _was_ , though. “You have the Gift, and you're a Prince. You have a duty to figure out how to use it to serve your people.”

“So you wouldn’t take the view that magic could be used as a crutch,” the Prince said, his eyebrows scrunching together in thought.

“No. A tool, yes. A useful tool. Also, if you don’t use it, your opponent probably will. That doesn’t make it dishonourable to wield it, anymore than it’s dishonourable to know how to throw a punch rather than always going for a duel,” Alex said bluntly, feeling a pang. He had tried not to mind, he really had, and had tried to focus on the fact that they others had enjoyed his gifts so much, but the absence was gnawing at him. The fact that Jon was  _questioning_ his gift on top of it....

A flash of pleasure in those blue eyes, as Jon reached under his pillow to draw something out. A blue stone, two knots holding it firmly in the centre of a leather cord. _What?_

 “In that case – Happy Midwinter, Alex. From all of us.” He threw it, and Alex caught it on reflex.

He turned the stone over in his hand, his mouth dropping open. It was beautiful. The candlelight seemed almost trapped within the depths of the stone, as it glinted and gleamed.

“We thought around your neck would be best,” Raoul said. “So that people wouldn’t be able to see it. They'd tease you, if they thought you were wearing jewellery.”

“But – why? I mean, it’s beautiful, but…”

“It’s a thunder talisman,” Jon said softly. “I didn’t realise that what I would do would get us all into trouble. So I thought, for next time…”

Alex’s throat tightened, and his eyes stung. They hadn’t forgotten him. Not at all.

“You,” he said, flushing as his voice cracked slightly. “Are very good friends.”

Raoul and Francis exchanged glances. So did Gary and Jon. Then they turned back to face him.

“We know,” Jon said, with a smirk.

Alex grinned, as the spell broke. “You’re modest, too, Highness,” he teased, poking the other boy in the rib. “Now help me tie this. Around the neck won’t work, someone could try to strangle me with it.”

“Is everyone from Tirragen paranoid, or is it just you?”

Such an insult could not go unchallenged, Alex explained to Duke Gareth, carefully editing out everything that had gone before it, and therefore there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for the pillow-fight that had broken out in the Prince’s room after lights out. The Duke seemed to need to cover a yawn urgently at that stage, then he recovered himself.

“Very well. One week of cleaning spears in the armoury after your duties are complete. You are both dismissed.”

The five pages bowed, and walked out of the office.

“I thought it went well,” Alex offered to Jon, who walked beside him scowling at the floor.

“I thought the whole point of the gift was to avoid punishment work!” Jon protested.

“You can only do that for so long. Besides, how else would the spears get cleaned?” Gary said, in the centre.

Alex clapped a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to it, Jon,” he said.

* * *

Alex stared at the forge in horror. The air of the place was hot, and it rang with the sounds of hammer, metal and anvil. It was enormous, easily the size of one of the ballrooms of the Palace, albeit very differently laid out.

It was the day after the last day of the Midwinter feasting, and the day had begun very strangely. The pages had reported to the Mithran priests for reading and writing, only to be redirected to the forge, where they had been met by His Grace and an unknown man, wearing an eyepatch and as dark as Selwyn. His Grace had promptly consigned them to the care of the man, who turned out to be none other than the famed Captain Sklaw.

Alex turned to the Captain. “You cannot be serious,” he said flatly.

Arram Sklaw bared his teeth. “Can’t I?”

Frantically, Francis shook his head at Alex. Raoul and Gary, meanwhile, were regarding Alex and the Captain like they were a very interesting Player’s show. Alex ignored them, glaring back at the mercenary Captain.

“No, you can’t! It’d take us months to forge swords! Most of us haven’t so much as held a hammer in our lives!”

Sklaw’s eyebrows crashed down into a frown, before he chuckled. “Well, it’s good to see someone who knows the first bit about smithing.” He shook his head. “We’re going to spend a few days here, boys, even if yon pup–” he jerked his thumb at Alex –“is right about you not forging the swords. As it happens, they’ve already been made. What is going to happen is that you are going to polish the blades that have already been made. The swords that have been made for this year’s Guardsmen, most of them are ready now. You are going to polish them, each of you with one of the forge’s apprentices as your guide. You will obey their every order, or you will never so much as pick up a sword.” His tone was pure steel. “Understood?”

Alex nodded, and he felt Raoul, Gary, and Francis nodding alongside him.

“Good. Feel the metal as you do it. Get a feel for your first weapons.”

One of the forge boys crouched in front of Alex, and beckoned him. “This way, sir,” he murmured.

“I’m not a Sir yet,” Alex whispered back. “Call me Alex. Page, if you must.”

The boy, a few years older, smiled tentatively at him. "I'm Mack." He showed Alex to a table. There was a large clamp there, with a sword held in its vice.

On the table were a bowl of clay, a bowl of water, and several stones. “You start with this stone, Page,” the boy said, picking up the one furthest to the left. He tapped the blade lightly, several inches from where it began at the wide base. “This part here is the tang. You don’t polish that. Ever.”

Alex nodded, and the boy continued. “You pick one direction, and you go from here–” he tapped the spot where it began to taper, “to here.” He pointed to the narrow, razor tip of the blade.

“I don’t need to worry about sharpening it?”

The boy shook his head. “No. We’ll do that for the blade, after we’ve made the cross-guards and grips for them. Easier, that way.”

Alex nodded his understanding, and set to work. Under Mack’s guidance, Alex slowly polished the blade, learning about water as lubricant for the blades, why the polishing had to be done before the blade’s cross-guard and grip was made.

“No, not there,” the boy shook his head, an expression of frustration crossing his face.

“So where?” Alex asked wearily, leaning his head against the table.

Mack looked at him for a long, long moment. “You’ve really never done this before, have you?”

Alex shook his head. “Closest I’ve ever gotten is just cleaning my blades. But that’s never taken as long as this.”

Mack smiled in understanding. “Fair enough. There’s a reason why a polisher commands a good price.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “You mean most people get paid for it?”

“Aye, but the Palace has to produce lots of blades, and they needs pay many. Setting pages to polishing the new blades for the Guardsmen week or so every year means that they don’t need to pay the apprentices’ wages as well as food for a week, and that counts,” the older boy explained.

Alex thought about the sheer number of people in the Palace, even in autumn and winter, and paled.

Mack nodded. “Exactly.”

“Remind me to never do the books for the Palace,” Alex mumbled, grabbing the rag and the clay.

“Why do books when you can polish? Don’t grab that clay, you’ve not finished with that stone yet!”

Alex sighed, and swapped the stone for clay again. Mack leaned over, tapping it at a particular spot.

“There. Start your stroke there, end it here.”

“As you say.”

Eventually, Mack swiped the stone out of his hand. “Enough. It’s time for the noon meal. I think you’re coming back here afterwards, though.”

Alex stifled a whimper, as he tried to uncurl his fingers and they cramped. Ow, ow, ow, _ffyc, ffyc_!

Strong hands grabbed his arm and helped him up. “Thanks,” he whispered.

The other boy winked at him. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Alex stumbled over to join the others, who all looked in equally poor condition, carefully looking away from their hands. “I hate being a page,” Gary said at last.

“Me too,” Alex sighed. “C’mon. Let’s go to lunch.”

* * *

By the end of the week, there were yet more callouses on Alex’s hands, but each and every one of the twelve new Guardsmen’s swords had been polished. Aramis had been unsympathetic to the exhaustion and cramping hands, staunchly refusing to let Alex stop having their destreza lessons, which meant that sleep was becoming an incredibly precious commodity.

One week later, every second-year boy met in the indoor training hall, used when the snow had finally made the outdoor practise courts unusable, as bidden the night before. Arram Sklaw looked them up and down, and snorted, before turning on his heel and marching off. They exchanged weary glances among themselves, before trotting after him.

“The Armoury, in case you case you lasses couldn’t realise it,” Sklaw said, throwing open the doors. Alex’s eyes widened as he took in the sheer scale of it. “Down the far end, is the training swords pile. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to select ones that are suitable.”

 _Meaning, you’ll get us to pick them, then berate us if we pick wrong_ , Alex thought, stamping down on a quick surge of anger at the thought. No. Losing his temper would not help him, even if Captain Sklaw was a horrible teacher. _Bright Goddess, if I ever have children, I never want to be a father like him_.

Alex walked to the pile of training swords, eyeing them. The blades were nicked, often worn, and fairly dull. They’d weathered a lot of abuse. They were often double- fullered, long grooves running along the inner edge of the sword in order to give more flexibility.

_Mithros and Maiden, you’ve seen hard use, haven’t you._

They were mostly all arming swords, as Sanya had predicted, but there was a few others in there was well. One had a very unusual hilt to it, almost like a handle shaped like the stoneware mugs his people used. Twice fullered, the blade curved slightly, single-edged.

_Sanya said it was best for mounted combat._

_But the handle-hilt would protect my hands, and make it easier to grip. Can it hurt?_

Slowly, Alex stood, his hand gripping the hilt and drew it from the scabbard, taking several steps away from the others. The curve of the blade meant the balance felt very different from his arming sword.

He stepped away from the others, and tried an overhand slash. It’s a bit big, but I could grow into it. It’s good for cutting and slashing, but not always good for on foot. Unless… Experimentally, he stabbed forward, at an angle. You could use it to thrust, although it wasn’t anywhere near as easy as simply slashing down. It had to be done with care. _Precision_.

He swung it about some more, and smiled. _I could learn this_. When he turned around to face the other boys and the Captain, Sklaw’s eyes were surprised.

“Wonder how that one got there?” he murmured. “Well, if you’re set on it, and it goes poorly, we’ll find out soon enough.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’, then,” Gary said, with a grin, holding his own arming sword.

“Buckle ‘em on, boys,” Sklaw said. “You go nowhere without these.”

“What about when we’re bathing?” Gary asked.

Sklaw smirked. “Treat the leather with oil. It will make the scabbards water-resistant.”

 _He’ll do it, too_ , Alex realized with a groan. That was the problem with insane, supposedly tiger-wrestling mercenary Captains.

Not seeing the point in delaying the inevitable, Alex found some rags, a pot of oil, and set to work.

* * *

 

After that, their lessons resumed, with the class-work of the mornings unchanged. But on the practise courts, things had become different. The hour of stretching and warm-ups had become forty minutes instead, timed by the Butterfly to the second. At that point, Sklaw – who had inevitably crept up on them – would bellow, usually causing their scabbards to smack against their legs painfully when they jumped in surprise. An hour and twenty minutes of swords would follow, before their schedule resumed as normal, until the horseback hour. Slowly, according to Aramis, Alex's balance would readjust to the weight of the sword always at his left hip, and his walk would change accordingly.

“Captain?” Alex said aloud one day.

“Hill barbarian,” the man roared back. “Get back into stance!”

Alex deepened his lunge. Thighs and backside ached from the strain of maintaining the fencer’s lunge, designed for the quick kill of duels, best suited to the rapier, the arming sword, a style where swift thrusts prevailed over sweeping, cutting action. A stabbing motion, rather than the shifting of leverage and force he was coming to realise his backsword required.

“Can I ask a question?” he asked, undeterred by the insult. Sklaw insulted everyone. His way of toughening them up. By the end of page training, Alex wondered if there would be anything soft left in him, or if he would be entirely made of steel and leather.

“You just did! Can’t you count?” The barb stung, and Alex pictured himself yanking it out, as he would a splinter.

“Why an hour and twenty minutes with swords?”

The man’s grin was mirthless. “Because swords are what you use when it’s all gone to Uusoae’s bedchamber, lad,” he answered. “Straighten up! You’re trying to stab you’re opponent, not fall into his sword!” A

lex held his head high, and held his stance.

 _At least I’ve got an answer to that question_ , he thought. But if that’s what the sword was – the weapon you had when there was nothing else left – then Alex would master it, he promised himself.

_The worst came to worst for Mama, and she had no way out. I will not leave the girls defenceless!_

Resolved again, he switched from his lunge, into the balanced ready stance.

 _Gods, I cannot wait for a bath_ , he thought, as Sklaw called a halt. It was barely the third hour of the afternoon, but sweat had already started working its way into his eyes.

Raoul took his place opposite him, and Alex shook his head.

They wouldn’t be at the bath-house for several hours, and in the meantime…

 _Guard_! Alex brought his right hand down on the punch, deflecting it out and away from the vulnerable point of his face, shoving it off course.

The next fist flew, and he blocked it with both arms crossed protectively in order to lend more strength.

“Tirragen, what are you doing?” came the voice of the Shang Butterfly.

Startled, Alex looked, and was caught off guard by the blow. “Agh!”

White-hot pain seared through his jaw, and he flew back.

“ _Alex_!” he heard Raoul’s voice cry.

“Get back, Goldenlake!” the Butterfly’s tone cracked like a whip.

Alex groaned. He had collided against the bucket of combat staves, and the clang set his ears to ringing.

“Tirragen, it was a nasty blow. Can you say anything?”

Alex opened his mouth, then closed it, as agony bloomed again.

Businesslike, calloused small fingers felt along his jaw. “I thought so. Dislocated. Goldenlake, you can apologise when you escort him to Duke Baird. He should be well enough by the time archery begins, if not before,” she said briskly.

Raoul’s hand was in front of him. Startled, Alex looked up, and took it. Raoul hauled him to his feet, and slid an arm around Alex’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Alex.” Alex hesitated, then leant into the touch. Raoul was touchy-feely, and if Alex was being honest, then so was he. And yes, his jaw ached like _ffyc_ , but it was an honest mistake.

They walked through the halls to the healing rooms. The way was familiar to Alex, and he picked up the pace. Up a flight of stairs, take the corridor to the right, three doors down…

They entered the healing rooms. “You again, Master Tirragen?”

Duke Baird’s face was gentle as he took in the sight of the dusty pages. Alex nodded, then whimpered, as the movement set of another shot of pain. The Duke looked at Raoul. “What happened?”

“The Shang said that his jaw was dislocated,” Raoul said, beginning to pace.

Alex reached, and his hand closed on the collar of Raoul’s tunic. The other boy whirled, and Alex shook his head just the tiniest bit.

 _Quit it. If you pace, you’ll make me nervous. If I’m nervous, Duke Baird has to take longer to heal me_.

Apparently the movement had gotten across to Raoul, because he sat, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

“Ah, I see the damage now. You’ve got quite a hook, Goldenlake. Was there a quarrel behind this, or pure mishap?”

“Mishap,” Raoul mumbled.

“I see.” The Duke’s hands were gentle as they laid on Alex’s head, and coolness swept through his jaw, pain being flooded out in the sensation of chill. _Oh, that’s good. Pity none of the other boys can do it…Could Jon learn how to heal, maybe?_

“Better?” the Duke smiled at him, and Alex nodded gratefully.

“Thank you, your Grace,” he said. “You’re not sleepy, are you? Some people get that way after healings.”

Alex shook his head. “No, I will be well. Raoul, stop looking like you kicked your puppy.”

The head snapped up.

“You’re not angry.”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course not,” Alex said, briskly, jerking his thumb to the door. “Have a good day, your Grace,” he called after him, as they walked back through the door.

“But–”

Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, Raoul. It was a mistake. It happens. Stop fretting.”

 “But I hurt you!”

“Yes, brothers do that sometimes, especially sword-brothers. Now stop looking like I kicked your puppy.”

A long silence, interrupted only by the sounds of their boots clacking against the hardwood floor.

“Brothers?” Raoul asked tentatively.

Alex rolled his eyes, pushing into a jog. “Yes, Raoul. Sword-brothers. Now come on, before they assign us punishment work for being late.”

As hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep some warmth out of his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: So I know that in First Adventure TP says the pages forge their practise swords, but…yeah, no. That’s unfeasible on so many levels. Here's a slightly more realistic version.
> 
> Sword-brothers: don't know if the term ever makes an appearance in canon. Basically, comrade. 
> 
> Ffyc is Welsh (or Hurdik, in this case) for 'fuck.' I wasn't kidding when I said Alex had learned to swear.
> 
> A fuller is a groove in a sword to make it more flexible. Polishers really were paid.
> 
> On another note: holy crap, ten chapters already!
> 
> Once again, kudos must go to the amazing Adrena_line for all her patience and listening to me babble about this universe.


	11. Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Things get strained. Or: Sir Myles covers the history of Hill Country, creating a rift between Jon and Alex; Alex has an encounter with the Mother; the boys try to patch things up. In short, the other side of relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry, guys, it's been a while I know. Life got crazy, my grandmother passed away, we had to arrange the funeral, I had an intense programme of classes during what is allegedly my break, and then got sick, and things have only just begun settling back to normal...in time for trimester two of Uni to kick in.   
> So I'm going to keep making an effort, but I just can't promise anything.   
> In the meantime, though, enjoy the Alex angst!

Sir Myles’ eyes were often the most expressive feature on his face. Today, they seemed strangely apologetic, as they found Alex’s.

Alex raised his eyebrows. By now, he knew Sir Myles almost as well as he knew his Guardsmen.

_What’s going on?_

“Today, class,” Sir Myles announced, the apology gone as he turned to the class, “we are covering more of the conquests of Jasson. In particular, we are covering his conquest of Hill Country.”

Alex’s hand tightened on his quill, looking at his parchment while he tried to clear his expression. _Well. That explains that._

“Hill Country and Tortall have been at odds as long as we have recorded history,” Sir Myles continued, beginning to pace back and forth at the front of the classroom. “The people of the hills have dwelt there since time immemorial, and resisted what they viewed as encroachment on their borders. However, with a few exceptions–” he nodded at Alex, who pursed his lips, but returned the gesture.

_He’s trying to be respectful. I know he is._

“There was much weakness within Hill Country, inasmuch as the clans and tribes kept to their traditional bounds, enmities and alliances, each clan fighting for itself. This led to the fall of the tribe of Sinthya, in the year of...” Sir Myles’ voice continued, and for the first time, Alex cursed his teacher’s gift for making the conquest and the battles so real.

He swallowed, the quill snapping in his hand, as he thought about the history.

His scarred country, that was still trying so hard to heal.

The way that Ralon’s pale blue eyes and blond hair had been so starkly wrong whenever the fiefs had come to Whitethorn to make deals, agreements and trade. His presence and his father’s presence the mark of Jasson’s decision to leave a Western watchdog, to be sure that the hill folk would not rise against him and reclaim their own lands.

_Hill barbarian._

The fact that Whitethorn had had to be built in the first place.

_Hill barbarian._

The dwindling numbers of the tribes. Tirragen had fifteen hundred people. According to Grandmother Ruby, the confederacy had numbered around five thousand, before Jasson's invasion.

A pale hand covered his right hand, and tapped on the knuckles.

Alex glanced up, and saw concerned blue eyes, and raised black eyebrows.

His fists clenched tighter, and Jon’s eyes widened, flinching away a little from the movement.

Alex smiled tightly, and scribbled. It was very difficult with the broken quill, and he impatiently dug in his shirt pocket for another.

_Not angry with you._

Jon’s look was flat and unimpressed, fear gone now, as he scribbled back with his own quill.

_Don’t lie to me, Alex._

Alex’s free hand clenched into a fist. He dared, as if he had the right…

 _Telling the truth to your line has not gone well, historically speaking_.

Confusion in the purse of Jon’s lips, the furrow of his brow, in the bright blue eyes, _damn_ those eyes, glittering with the deep sapphire of the Conté Gift.

_What do you mean? What happened? What did Grandfather do?_

Alex felt cold, as though he’d been caught in a snowstorm; as if the blood in his veins had been replaced by ice.

_He doesn’t get it. He truly doesn’t get it._

He yanked back the parchment. Of course he didn’t understand. Why would Jonathan have understood?

_You mean, aside from conquer lands that weren’t his?_

_The gods were with him,_ Jonathan scribbled back, his forehead creasing. _That’s what the books say_.

_The gods._

Alex froze, and closed his eyes, before surging to his feet. “I can’t stay,” he said, at Myles’ worried look. He left his things where they were, and stepped through the door into the corridors.

He kept walking through the halls, keeping his expression stony, his stride quick and shoes clicking across the cold stone of the Palace halls. _I’m a page on an errand._ He wouldn’t have long to pull himself together, only until lunch. And then it would be…what? How would Jonathan react? How could Alex explain?

 _I’m sorry, Mama_.

He bit his lip, hard. _What would Mama say about it all? About the whole damn mess?_

 _We are as the gods’ children, my son, all of us. Bazhir or hillman, westerner or northerner or easterling, we are each made in their image_ , she had told him one day.

“But why did they make us different if we are all their children, Mama?” Alex had asked her in Barzunni, pressing closer to her side. They always spoke in Barzunni, when Leila was talking to him about the desert and the stories of Father Universe and Mother Flame.

Leila had hesitated, then smoothed his hair down. “First, you and Jason and Duncan are different, even though you’re brothers. Does that make you any less your father’s sons?”

“No,” Alex had agreed, “but you aren’t Jason or Duncan’s mother.”

His mother frowned, sighing. “True.”

She stared into the crackling fire for a while. There was always a fire going in his mother’s parlour. Jason and Duncan teased her for it, saying that it was her desert blood, unable to resist crackling flames in the face of the frigid winter night’s air. A thick wolfskin pelt covered the cool stone floors, and a collection of cushions formed a nest on which both of them were kneeling. A warm blanket was around Alex’s shoulders, and he drew it closer around him.

“Why?” he persisted. A weary smile, from his mother.

“Because, little captain, in the beginning,” Leila began. “After we turned from the gods – turned from the ones who gave us life–” her voice was pained, and Alex bit his lip, nestling closer to her side, burying his head in her chest to try and comfort her. _Mama!_ Her breath hitched, and then she continued, her eyes bright as she continued to stare at the fire. “We were one people. We dwelled near the centre of the earth, far to the south of here. Far more south than the desert. We grew proud in our rebellion, and we decided that we would make a name for ourselves, as humans. So we built a city, and in the centre of the city, we built a tower. We decided to build it so tall that it would touch the sky itself, tall as the mountains.”

Her tone was soft, and Alex studied her. Her hair was unveiled, glimmering with the trapped firelight, her eyes were bright. His beautiful, brave Mama.

“We didn’t want to have parents. We didn’t want to submit. We didn’t want obedience. We wanted to make a name for ourselves,” she said. “The same attitude that made us turn away from the gods, made us build the tower. And to save us from our own foolishness, the gods scattered us. Some to the high mountains. Some along the roads East, to the Roof of the World. Some to the Carthak and the southern lands. Some to the Isles, some to Yaman and Jindazhen. To all the corners of the earth, they spread us. And that is how we came to be different peoples.”

 _So if we’re all the gods’ children, Mama_ , he thought, looking up and wiping at his eyes. _How come conquest happens?_

His people, his country. Grandmother Ruby had been so wise, so clever, the hestaka to the entire confederacy. And yet, in the end, she had chosen to spare Tirragen from further reprisals, to surrender to Jasson early.

_Why? Why does it happen?_

Another thought intruded: _if it did not happen, I would not be here. What would I have chosen between? My people, whole and unharmed? My own life?_  

Alex clenched his fists at the grief that shot through him, a bolt of pain, searing and bright, like being blinded by stepping into light after total darkness.

_Why?_

“Hello, child,” someone said.

Alex startled, abruptly pulled from his reverie. His feet had pulled him to a small chapel, dedicated not to Mithros but to the Goddess. Alex nodded at the priestess, not trusting his voice. He looked around. He didn’t come here often; Aramis could be found here, occasionally having become so lost in thought that he was late for their destreza lessons. Not often, but occasionally. So why had his feet brought him here?

The priestess knocked back her hood, and Alex looked into gentle green eyes and a broad, round face.

“What do you need, child?” the woman asked softly.

Alex swallowed, shaking his head.

“I don’t know,” he told her.

The priestess studied him, and Alex shifted beneath the scrutiny. _Don’t. Don’t look at me. I don’t want you to._

The priestess held out her hand. “Come.”

Alex eyed the hand warily. Well-bred Bazhir boys did not take the hands of women they were not related to, but then, but hill boys might. What was he supposed to do?

Smile fading a bit, and then returning more brightly – she had noticed his hesitance – the priestess beckoned for him to follow her.

She led him to a small shrine, a little delicate sculpture of a beautiful woman done in marble, resting on the top of the altar. “Bright Goddess,” the priestess addressed the figure, and Alex started. “I bring before you one of your children, in need of your comfort today.”

Alex stared at the priestess, frowning. “But the Goddess is not within the statue,” he said.

Her eyebrows rose as she studied him. “She is not,” the priestess agreed. “It is more for our sake than hers, to serve as a point of connection. We look at it, and picture her to speak with her. Does that explanation satisfy you, child?”

Alex felt a blush rising to his cheeks, and he nodded. “My apologies for my impertinence,” he mumbled. She smiled, and pressed a light hand against his shoulder.

“Tell her what’s going on, child.”

“I don’t want to,” he said, fixing his eyes on the statue. “She won’t– she’ll turn away. I’m just a barbarian, after all,” he added, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

The hand tightened to an almost painful grip, and he yelped. Instantly, it relaxed.

“I doubt it,” the priestess said. “Try talking to her.”

Alex rolled his eyes, but he knelt. It still felt too personal, with the priestess there, so he dropped into Hurdik.

“It feels strange, doing this,” he told her. “Talking to you this way, without the ritual prayer. Is it insolent, do you think?”

He felt something brush against his mind, the sense of a soft, caring presence.

_Insolent?_

An image flashed into his mind. He had been small, barely walking, and had fallen and skinned his knee. Crying, he had launched himself at his mother, who was already kneeling with her arms outstretched.

 _Was it insolent for you to seek solace from your mother_? He shifted.

 _Of course not_ , he responded to the voice, realising with a shock that this was the Goddess Herself.

 _So tell me what troubles you, little captain_.

Alex’s eyes widened, and he stared at the statue in disbelief.

Duncan had dropped the nickname on him, when Alex played with a set of carved wooden soldiers in his room, soldiers that had belonged to Duncan himself as a child.

“Leader of men, your name means,” Duncan had mused, ruffling Alex’s hair and patiently extracting yet another archer from Alex’s mouth. “But it’s rather long for your size. How about little captain?”

 _You know me_ , Alex realised, awestruck. _You – you know me_. A gentle chuckle, like the quiet lapping of Lake Tirragen against rock.

_I certainly do, little captain. Just as I knew your father, your mother, your grandmother. I know you._

_Why?_ Alex asked her, unable to prevent the tears from springing to his eyes, anger melting away like snow in sunshine in the face of the presence. _Why did you permit Jasson’s conquest? Why do you let people call my people barbarians?_

A soft sigh, wind whistling through the trees, and another image:

He was four years old, and had just ridden Jaiyana by himself for two hours, and his legs had cramped so hard that they gave way beneath him. Mama, make it stop! Mama, explaining to him, with tears in her eyes.. she couldn’t – and wouldn’t – take every ounce of pain away, because he was growing big and strong and would learn how to handle it. That one day, he would want be big and strong and want to leave her.

He hadn’t understood her, then. And yet it had turned out exactly as she said.

 _Of course it did. Mothers know best. To your question: Mother Flame and Father Universe gave us our head, and gave us the freedom of choice, in how we would live and love. In the same way, your choices are yours to make, for we would have you choose to love us freely. We would not coerce you. But beneath all freedoms, little captain, is the freedom to take the consequences_.

Alex felt a hot wave of anger rush through him. _So if someone chooses to **murder** –_

A sharp sensation, like when his mother rapped his fingers with her fan.

 _Do not test me, little captain_ , came the warning. _To answer your question: yes. Yes, if someone chooses their evil, then that consequence must be borne. Just as you wish to choose good, and so the consequences must be borne._

 _Choosing good is good!_ Alex fired back. A ripple of amusement.

_I did not say that a consequence was a good or a bad thing, little captain. It is merely something that occurs as a result of another action. Whether it is good or bad varies from action to action._

Truth. Logic, beautifully spelled out, just like an algebraic equation. Alex’s eyes blurred with tears, and a sob burst from his throat.

_I hurt…_

Warmth enfolded him, and he smelled a sweet stirring of jasmine, the scent his mother wore.

 _I am here, my son_ , he felt the Mother whisper. _I am here_.

Slowly, the sobs subsided to hitches of breath, and Alex wiped his eyes.

The priestess gently drew him to his feet.

 _You are right, you know_ , the Mother whispered, bringing the memory of his argument with Myles over chivalry to his mind. _There’s much marred in this world. So much more than I ever wanted. But there is beauty, that shines like stars in the darkness. And you are one of those stars._

 _Shine brightly, little captain_. Alex wiped the fresh resurgence of tears away, and the priestess smiled.

“Go and eat, child. It’s time for your lunch. And see if you can’t find it in you to forgive your friend.”

Alex’s eyes widened. “How did you–”

The priestess chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot of people come and go, child. I know the mark of a falling out as much as anyone does. Go and eat.”

Alex felt horror freeze his stomach at the thought of facing Jonathan. How could he possibly explain–?

 _I can’t!_ he cried, yanking on the newfound thread of connection he felt. _I can’t!_

 _You can_ , came the serene response. _And you surely shall. You are my little captain, and you are more than equal to this task_.

Swallowing hard, Alex stepped through the doors of the chapel into the corridor.

_But how do I explain–?_

_Do not explain as an ambassador, for you are not_ , she whispered. _Jonathan is your friend. So explain to him, as his friend, why you are in pain_.

_What if he won’t listen?_

A sigh, and a feeling like a brush of lips against his temple. _Then you can hold your head high, little captain_.

Taking a deep breath, Alex walked into the dining hall. Every table was filled with the chattering of conversation, but the sense of eyes on him felt chill down his spine. _Ralon's watching me._  He walked to the serving table, and forced himself to ladle several spoons of stew into his bowl, before walking over to the table where his friends were seated. They had all fallen silent. Jon’s eyes locked with his. Alex forced a smile, setting down the bowl of stew.

“Hey,” he said softly, jerking his head towards the corridor. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Jon glanced at Gary hesitantly, who nodded once and then began chattering loudly about how Philosophy had made _no_ sense, jabbing an elbow into Raoul's ribs.

 _I’ll have to get the notes from Francis_ , Alex realized. _And Myles will probably punish me_.

They walked in silence to the corridor, and Jon pointed to an alcove. _There_.

There was barely enough room for the two of them, and Alex grimaced as Jon’s elbows jammed into his ribs.

“You wanted to talk?” The younger boy’s expression was cool, and Alex nodded.

His heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt like he was walking across a rope over thin air, like the Players who had come to the castle to perform. Only they were sure-footed, and Alex, by comparison, was a clumsy bear trying to dance.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he began.

“Really,” Jon said, in a flat tone, crossing his arms.

Alex swallowed, then squared his shoulders. “Yes, really. I hurt you, because I was mad about something that you didn’t do. And that wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.” Jon looked at Alex for a long moment. Alex’s skin prickled under the scrutiny, but he returned the stare. _I’m sorry_ , he felt like crying. _I just hurt_.

Eventually, Jon sighed. “I’m not hurt because you snapped at me. That’s not the part that’s important.”

Alex frowned. That…wasn’t forgiveness. “So…” he said cautiously.

“What is the important bit?” Jon frowned back.

“We’re friends. Friends talk to each other when things are wrong. But you didn’t. You tried to hide it, and then you snapped, and then you left.”

Alex let out a long, slow breath. His tongue felt like lead, but he forced his mind to work. “Yeah, I did,” he admitted, crossing his arms. _It’s Jon. He was there when I was so scared I couldn’t breathe._ “When I get angry or overwhelmed like that – it’s not you, Jon, I just had to move. I needed to be away from the class for a bit. The history of hill country – dammit, Jon, it’s my people, it’s the story of how we fought and died and were conquered. I can’t think about that and not get angry. I can’t believe that what Jasson did was right. You can understand why telling you – Crown Prince, heir to everything that Jasson has done – didn’t seem like a good idea. Can’t you?”

Jon flinched, and spread his hands. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, softly. “I can’t turn back time. I’m still just a child, Alex. We both are.”

“I’m not asking you to turn back time,” Alex said, rubbing at his head. “Just…as your friend, don’t call me hill barbarian. It hurts. And try and give me space, when Sir Myles is talking about the conquest of Hill Country. But if you want to know what you can do as the heir–”

Jon sighed, but gestured for him to grow on, looking tired in a way that Alex had last seen on his father, sometimes during his long illness, when his gentle cheer would falter. Alex felt a rush of compassion and worry. How many people had tried to use Jon for his position already?

“Listen. Alright?” Jon’s eyebrows shot up, shock in those blue eyes.

“I’m sorry?” Alex felt a surge of impatience.

“Listen. Listen to our side of the story as well. Don’t call us barbarians or sand scuts. Listen to what we think and say, listen to how we think the world works, because you’re right, we can’t turn back time, but that means we’ve got to find a new way forward.”

Jon nodded, his eyes softening. “I’ll try, Alex. We’d better go back in, though. The stew will be getting cold.”

Alex smiled slightly at him, as they left the alcove. “Yeah, you’re right. So peace?”

“Peace,” Jon said, squeezing his hand quickly and then dropping it.

Alex felt his smile widen, closed his eyes, and breathed a quick prayer of thanks, hearing a silvery chuckle in response. _Well done, little captain_.

“Did I miss anything during Philosophy?” he asked, as they walked back down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. Jon’s nose wrinkled and he poked his tongue out in exaggerated disgust.

“You’ll have to ask Francis. I fell asleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the themes of racism, colonialism, and now spirituality come into play. Thoughts? Liked it, hated it? Lemme know. Oh, and story is blatantly pulled from the Tower of Babel.


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